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FAMOUS    STORIES 
FROM  FOREIGN  COUNTRIES 


Other  Books  by  Edna  Worthley  Underwood 

SONGS  FROM  THE  PLAINS 

SONGS  OF  HAFIZ 
Translated  from  the  Persian 


FAMOUS  STORIES  FROM 
FOREIGN  COUNTRIES 


TRANSLATED  BY 

EDNA  WORTHLEY  UNDERWOOD 


Boston 

The  Four  Seas  Company 

1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
The  Four  Seas  Company 


THE  FOUR   SEAS   PRESS 
BOSTON,  MASS.,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

THE  LITTLE  BLANCHEFLEURE    ...         9 

By  Rudolf  Hans  Bartsch 
THE    EXCHANGE 31 

By  Svatopluk  Cech 
CHAI 41 

By  Awetis  Aharonean 
IN    PRISON 53 

By  Awetis  Aharonean 
THE  ELOPEMENT 65 

By  Alexander  Petofi 
SAIDJAH 73 

By  Multatuli 
ABISAG 83 

By  J  aroslav  Vrchlicky 
THE  KING'S  CLOTHES 99 

By  Koloman  Mikszath 
//WHEN  THE  BRIGHT  NIGHTS  WERE  .     .     113 

By  Petri  Rosegger 
THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 121 

By  Alexander  L.  Kielland 
MY  TRAVELING  COMPANION  .     .     •     .     135 

By  Pietari  Paivarinta 


45G260 


dedicated 

with  esteem  and  gratitude  to 

Professor  Calvin  Thomas 

scholar  and  linguist 


THE  LITTLE  BLANCHEFLEURE 
By  RUDOLF  HANS  BARTSCH 


BARTSCH 

Rudolf  Hans  Bartsch  is  the  Austrian  writer  who 
won  the  attention  of  worid  critics  so  quickly  by  the 
three  books — Vom  sterbenden  Rokoko,  Elizabeth 
Kott,  and  Zwolf  aus  der  Steiermark. 

In  Vellhagen  and  Klasing's  Monthly,  Dr.  Carl  Busse 
says  o£  him:  "Because  he  is  such  a  creator — ^by  the 
grace  of  God — while  all  that  he  writes  is  so  genuine 
that  it  seems  to  have  come  from  some  divine  source, 
we  love  this  Austrian  writer.  No  story  teller,  of 
to-da)^  surpasses  him  in  depth  of  contents,  and  charm 
and  grace  of  surface.  Few  possess  such  natural 
gifts." 

The  story  we  give  is  from  Vom  sterbenden  Ro- 
koko, a  book  in  which  he  paints  powerful  and 
delightful  pictures  of  the  i8th  Century. 


THE   LITTLE   BLANCHEFLEURE 

My  friend  Franeli  Thaller  from  Solathum,  was 
telling  me  about  an  old  picture. 

From  the  second  hand  dealer,  Hirschli,  by  the 
Hafnersteg,  I  bought  a  picture  of  the  little  Marquise 
Blanchefleure,  who,  with  a  great  part  of  the  French 
nobility — in  that  year  of  bad  taste,  1792 — lost  her 
charming  head.  Here  in  the  picture  she  has  her  head ; 
and  that  head  has  a  high  coiffure,  and  astonishingly 
arched  eyebrows — ^just  as  if  they  had  been  drawn  by 
the  brush  of  Watteau — and  a  merry  looking  little  face. 
She  is  charming,  and  she  fills  my  heart  with  longing. 

You  do  not  know  anything  about  the  little  Marquise 
Blanchefleure,  do  you,  who  was  always  right?  You 
do  not  know  anything,  of  course,  do  you,  of  the 
ridiculous  passion  of  my  great  grandfather,  the  Swiss, 
Thaller,  whose  portrait  in  enamel  hangs  just  below 
hers,  nor  of  the  foolish  actions  of  the  Jacobins,  those 
people  devoid  of  all  taste  and  charm? 

No? 

Well,  the  little  Marquise  Blanchefleure  was  always 
right.  She  was  right  to  come  into  this  world  as  a  duch- 
ess. Remote  blood  of  Savoy — although  somewhat  far 
down  in  the  list  of  rank  of  Versailles — ^but  still  she  was 

9 


loM:  5^:  ^•:'. -FAMOUS  STORIES 


a  little  duchess,  who  one  day  would  blossom  out  into 
the  merriest  Marquise  in  the  Court  of  the  King.  She 
was  right  that  she  was  better  than  all  other  creatures 
in  her  father's  castles,  villages  and  estates ;  better  than 
the  music  and  dance  teacher,  the  overseer,  peasant, 
maid,  ass,  ox,  serf,  and  all  else  that  was  there.  She 
lived  laughing  and  merry,  ?nd  the  world  bent  before 
her  beauty  and  splendor.  Just  as  the  wind  sweeps 
over  grain  fields,  niaknig  them  bow  and  bend,  so 
crowds  of  people  bent  before  her;  compliments  en 
mille.  She  was  right  to  marry  Marquis  Massimel  de 
la  Reole  de  Courtroy,  over  whose  stupidity  the  court 
laughed  so  that  he  became  indispensable  to  the  king, 
and  was  always  present  at  his  lever  to  ensure  good 
humor  for  the  day.  She  had  lovers  in  plenty,  men 
rich  enough  to  gratify  all  the  caprices  of  a  Blanche- 
fleure. 

Her  laughing  habit  of  command  is  illustrated  by  the 
following  incident.  Every  one  knows  that  in  the 
French  army  it  was  forbidden — under  penalty  of  death 
— to  sing  the  kuhreihen.  The  reason  was  because  the 
awkward  German  children  of  the  Alps — when  they 
heard  it  sung  or  played — would  either  run  away  like 
a  herd  of  cattle,  or  die  of  homesickness. 

Zu  Strasburg  auf  der  Schanz, 

Da  ging  mein  Trau'ren  an  ,   .   . 

Das  Alphorn  hort  ich  druhen  wohl  ausfimmen, 

Ins  Vaterland  muszt  ich  hiniiber  schwimmen, — 

Das  ging  nicht  an. 


THE  LITTLE  BLANCHEFLEURE  ii 

And  my  great,  great,  grandfather,  Primus  Thaller, 
sang  the  kuhreihen  in  the  midst  of  the  streets  of  Paris ! 
He  stood  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Swiss  barracks, 
where  the  sand  is  yellow  and  glowed  in  the  light  of 
the  setting  sun,  and  where  the  soldiers  were  getting 
ready  to  go  into  the  city.  This  was  the  way  it 
happened.  He  had  just  received  a  letter  from 
America,  from  his  brother  Quintus,  who  was  six  years 
younger,  and  had  been  a  drummer  boy  in  the  regiment 
of  the  Prince  of  Orleans.  It  was  the  typical  letter  of 
an  eighteen  year  old  boy  who  wrote  enthusiastically  of 
Lafayette,  Washington,  Freedom,  and  the  rights  of  the 
individual.  Young  Quintus  said  that  the  Regiment 
of  the  Lilies  would  return  to  France ;  over  their  heads 
were  invisible,  prophetic  tongues  of  fire,  which,  in 
France,  would  burst  out  into  a  great  conflagration, 
great  words;  Freedom!     Equality!     Fraternity! 

Great  words?  Freedom,  equality?  Then  my  poor, 
lonesome  great  grandfather  thought  how  all  this  had 
existed  in  his  own  home  country  for  hundreds  of 
years — in  Appenzell,  from  which  village  he  had  come 
with  the  hope  of  winning  fame  and  gold.  And  he 
thought  how  they  were  bringing  these  ideas  from 
America,  across  the  sea,  to  proclaim  them  new  and 
world  astonishing,  while  in  his  own  little  home  village, 
they  flourished'  quietly.  The  great  laws  of  the  human 
race  are  cause  neither  for  a  great  intoxication  nor  a 
great  jubilation.  They  represent  merely  a  careful 
estimating;  for  the  great  mass  of  humanity  they  are 
meat,  bread,  shelter,  hearth,  a  little  sunshine,  and  green 


12  FAMOUS  STORIES 

grass,  or  hard  labor,  that  the  beast  of  destruction  may 
sleep  in  safety. 

In  his  home  in  Appenzell,  they  already  had  that 
which  they  whispered  so  carefully  in  Paris.  He 
thought  of  his  circumspect  uncles,  their  cows  and 
calves,  their  fields  and  Alps.  It  is  surely  the  Paradise 
of  the  human  race,  my  dear  Switzerland,  thought  the 
sergeant — and — thus  deep  in  thought,  without 
knowing  what  he  was  doing,  he  sang  the  kuhreihen. 

There  it  was  and  done  for. 

The  news  from  America  had  put  more  rage  into 
people's  hearts  than  my  honest  great,  great  grandfather 
Primus  could  estimate. 

For  a  long  time  discipline  in  the  army  had  been 
neglected.  There  were  men  of  his  own  country  in 
the  regiment,  and  a  dozen  joined  softly  the  refrain 
of  my  great  grandfather's  song,  so  that  the  kuhreihen 
rang  far  and  loud.  No  one  had  sung  it  before  for 
decades,  and  therefore  no  one  had  been  punished. 
But  now  it  sounded  quite  differently  than  in  the  olden 
days.  Not  a  song  of  exile  and  homesickness!  No; 
now  it  was  a  song  of  defiance.  They  reveled,  and 
shouted  the  song.  But  although  my  grandfather  stole 
away  when  he  saw  they  were  destroying  the  spirit  of 
his  song,  and  although  only  a  couple  of  Appenzell 
cow-herds  ran  away  and  deserted,  he  was  the  one 
who  had  started  it.  They  arrested  him.  According 
to  law,  he  must  be  punished  with  death.  The  death 
penalty  was  about  the  only  thing  that  bound  the  sub- 
jects to  their  king  in  those  days.     I  do  not  know  of 


THE  LITTLE  BLANCHEFLEURE  13 

course  whether  it  is  the  same  way  in  other  countries 
to-day. 

It  was  the  King's  duty  to  revive  the  punishment  of 
the  old  law.  At  his  lever  he  thought  earnestly  over 
the  fate  of  my  great  grandfather,  Primus.  When 
the  Marquis  Massimel  de  la  Reole  de  Courtroy 
approached  him  laughing  merrily  he  said:  "What 
shall  we  do  with  this  fellow,  Primus  ?  He  has  brought 
into  fashion  an  old  piece  of  stupidity/'  The  Marquis 
did  not  really  know  about  the  subject  of  conversation, 
so  he  said  impulsively:  "Sire,  if  it  is  a  question  of 
fashion,  why  not  turn  it  over  to  my  wife  to  decide?" 
The  entire  court  laughed,  and  His  Majesty,  who  was 
an  agreeable  person,  laughed  too.  He  had  procured 
delay — ^which  was  pleasing  to  him — so  the  fate  of  my 
great,  great  grandfather  rested  in  the  charming  hands 
of  the  little  Marquise  Blanchefleure,  who  at  that 
moment  was  tying  the  ribbons  of  the  morning  cap  of 
Marie  Antoinette.  The  lever  of  this  enchanting, 
frivolous  Queen  began  an  hour  later,  but  the  Marquis, 
as  husband  of  his  wife,  and  messenger  of  the  king, 
was  already  there.  In  the  meantime  he  had  informed 
himself  about  the  case  of  Primus  Thaller,  and 
explained  it  to  the  Queen  and  the  Marquise.  Madame 
Blanchefleure  clapped  delightedly  her  little  hands.  A 
Swiss!  How  charming!  I  beg  the  handsome  King 
of  France  to  give  him  to  me,  to  build  a  Swiss  dairy 
for  me  in  La  Reole,  and  an  Alp,  and  get  me  some 
dappled  cows. 

The  Queen  laughed  and  agreed. 


14  FAMOUS  STORIES 

"He  must  get  some  real  cow-bells,  a  grey  coat  with 
a  red  waistcoat,  a  shepherd's  hat,  and  blue  ribbons 
the  color  of  the  sky.  In  June  our  Imperial  Majesty 
will  visit  La  Reole,  and  then,  on  top  of  the  charming 
Alp  which  he  has  built,  we  will  make  him  sing  the 
kithreihen,  so  all  can  hear  it.  Is  not  that  true, 
beautiful  Queen?" 

The  merry,  frivolous  Queen  laughed  and  agreed, 
and  the  King  pardoned  my  great,  great  grandfather, 
who  had  been  the  cause  of  such  a  joyful  occurrence. 
Then  Herr  Primus  had  an  audience  with  Madame 
Blanchefleure,  in  order  to  thank  her  for  his  life. 

He  had  proved  that  he  was  useless  as  a  soldier.  He 
appeared  before  her  in  the  Httle  round  hat,  and  the 
peasant  clothes  of  Appenzell.  Because  of  her 
curiosity  and  excitement  over  the  situation,  Madame 
Blanchefleure  had  cold  hands  and  flaming  cheeks. 
When  the  pitiful,  awkward,  grey  figure  of  the  poor 
cow-herd  was  ushered  in,  her  breath  stopped.  She 
had  pictured  to  herself  a  powerful  revolutionist  and 
popular  agitator,  whose  words  were  flame,  and  here 
came  a  little  commonplace  law-book  of  citizens'  rights  ; 
good,  honest,  quiet,  a  regular — "You  give  me  that  and 
ril  give  you  this." 

Can  you  make  a  guess  as  to  what  Madame  Blanche- 
fleure did?  When  he  entered  and  said  to  her  with 
great  sincerity:  "It  was  good  of  Your  Grace  to  turn 
your  attention  to  a  poor  fellow  like  me,"  she  looked 
at  his  face,  because  his  clothes  and  his  personal  appear- 
ance were  so  unimportant.  He  had  our  grey,  keen 
eyes,  an  honest,  narrow  face;  high  temples,  thin  nose; 


THE  LITTLE  BLANCHEFLEURE  15 

only  youth  gave  a  sort  of  gentleness  to  this  unpleasant 
Cato-face.  He  was  so  unshakable  and  self -centered, 
that  ten  measures  of  wine  could  not  change  him,  nor 
falling  in  love,  nor  the  political  upheavals  of  a  period 
of  revolution.  He  stood  in  front  of  her  as  the  very 
symbol  of  reliability,  with  his  two  little  legs  spread 
wide  apart — an  old  habit  of  the  Swiss^ — inherited 
through  generations.  But  she  observed  this  common- 
place little  face  and  thought : 

"I'll  bring  him  to  the  point  where  he  shall  say  of  me: 
elle  me  fait  troubler,"  This  was  the  standpoint  from 
which  she  regarded  men. 

"But  listen  to  me,"  she  began  amazed,  "you!  You 
have  sung?     But  you  do  not  look  in  the  least  like  it." 

"I  can  not  sing.    I  just  came  to  thank  you." 

"Then  how  could  you  sing  your  rans  de  vaches?" 

"Oh — it  just  came — from  the  inside  of  me." 

"Were  you  homesick?" 

"No;  I  only  just  thought  that  Appenzell  was  better 
than  Paris." 

"Good  heavens!  And  you  want  to  go  away  from 
here?  What  have  we  done  to  you?  You  are  slight- 
ing us.  We,  we  love  you  Swiss.  You  are  the  honest 
little  mirror  in  which  we  see  ourselves  just  as  we  are. 
O  please  say  something  rude  to  me!" 

"I  can't !     I  don't  know  you  well  enough." 

"O — then  you  don't  know  Paris  very  well.  How 
is  it  possible  that  no  one  has  fallen  in  love  with  you 
here?  In  Paris — everyone  is  loved  by  some  one. 
Even  soldiers  have  sweethearts..  How  can  it  be  that 
our  pretty  children  and  women  have  not  said  a  good 


i6  FAMOUS  STORIES 

word  to  you  about  Paris?  You  have  a  sweetheart, 
of  course?  Or  you  have  several?  Perhaps  you  have 
too  many?" 

But  my  good  great  grandfather  had  no  sweetheart 
in  Paris,  although  he  was  a  sergeant.  He  always 
wanted  one  with  a  blond,  sunny  face,  and  that  kind 
he  could  not  find  here.  The  eyes  of  Parisian  women 
are  twinkling  stars  shining  over  secret  street  corners ; 
they  always  lure  one  around  a  comer.  My  great, 
great  grandfather  always  walked  straight  ahead. 

That  he  said  to  her,  but  of  course  in  the  better 
language  which  my  honorable  great  grandfather  spoke. 

''Good  Heaven !"  declared  Blanchefleure,  "how  could 
one  make  up  to  you?  Perhaps  I  should  try  if  I  were 
not  married." 

Poor  Primus  lifted  his  astonished  grey  eyes  and 
looked  at  her,  in  order  the  better  to  penetrate  the  mean- 
ing behind  the  silk  and  ostrich  feathers,  glittering 
clothes,  and  gilded  furniture.  He  looked  deep  and 
earnestly  into  the  charming,  tender  little  face,  so 
expressive  of  unmixed  joy,  in  the  gay,  opera  setting 
from  which  it  looked  out. 

He  began  to  feel  sad  because  she  was  married.  She 
really  resembled  a  sunbeam. 

"Can't  you  say  anything  at  all?"  begged  Blanche- 
fleure. 

"Krildgts  HerrgottUr  stammered  poor  Primus. 

"You  say  you  might  have  tried  it  with  me?" 

"What?"  she  questioned  delighted. 

Then  he  spoke  French  again.  "You  ought  not  to 
play  any  jokes  on  a  poor  fellow  like  me." 


THE  LITTLE  BLANCHEFLEURE  17 

"No,  of  course  not,"  she  laughed.  "I  was  only- 
going  to  say  that  it's  a  misfortune  for  us  both.  Just 
think!  I  haven't  any  real  sweetheart  now,  and  I'm 
just  as  deserted  as  you  are." 

"But  haven't  you  the  merry  Marquis?" 

"Why  I'm  married  to  him!"  she  almost  sobbed,  so 
convinced  was  she  of  her  own  misfortune.  "Can  you 
understand  at  all — you  who  are  from  Switzerland 
where  every  one  chooses  as  he  wishes,  what  it  means 
to  be  bom  a  Princess  and  to  be  sold  according  to 
appraisement?" 

'*Ei,  ja/'  nodded  Primus.  "With  us  in  Appenzell, 
no  peasant  who  owned  fifty  cows  would  give  his  girl 
to  a  peasant  who  didn't  own  so  many.  That  is  good 
for  the  family." 

"How  is  it?" 

"Keeps  them  from  becoming  poor," 

"Are  you  very  poor?" 

"If  I  hadn't  been  I  wouldn't  have  become  a  soldier." 

At  this  moment  the  little  Marquise  asked  Herr 
Primus,  if  he  would  like  to  set  up  a  daiiy  for  her  in 
La  Reole — like  those  in  his  home,  in  Appenzell.  My 
great  grandfather  twirled  his  round  hat  in  his  hand 
and  fought  the  sternest  battle  of  his  life.  His  honest 
Swiss  mind  was  interested  in  just  one  thing,  how 
much  gold  he  could  get.  Twice  he  began,  looked  up 
in  the  gay,  sunshine  face,  and  for  the  life  of  him, 
could  not  get  the  question  out  of  his  mouth.  So  he 
said  yes  without  any  conditions.  He  had  even  forgot- 
ten his  Swiss  reckoning  in  this  charming  interview. 


i8  FAMOUS  STORIES 

It  would  have  been  all  over  with  him  in  Paris  the  first 
of  May  in  the  year  1789. 

a|c      :|c      3|c      :(c      3|c      4c 

It  was  lucky  for  him  that  he  never  saw  La  Reole. 
Then  a  quiet  tragedy  would  have  passed  over  him  and 
no  one  been  the  wiser  except  Madame  Blanchefleure, 
who  would  have  found  it  all  very  amusing.  The 
terrible,  prodigious  Revolution  prevented  Madame 
from  putting  her  charming  plan  into  execution. 

That  great  Lord,  Marquis  Massimel  de  la  Reole  de 
Courtroy,  enjoyed  the  distinguished  honor  of  having 
his  head  cut  off,  immediately  after  the  amiable  King, 
which  occurrence — no  matter  what  scomers  may  say 
— cost  him  his  life.  This  act  was  one  of  the  proofs  of 
the  equality  of  all  men,  because  the  Revolution  said  so. 
Madame  Blanchefleure  in  spite  of  the  sweetest  of  tears, 
together  with  hundreds  of  the  friends  who  had  idled 
with  her  in  those  golden  gardens  of  Versailles,  was 
imprisoned  in  the  dungeon  of  the  Temple,  along  with 
the  flower  of  the  nobility  of  witty,  elegant  France. 
Professors,  academicians,  fashionable  painters,  en- 
chanting poets.  In  fact  the  choicest  spirits  of  France 
were  here.  A  company  composed  entirely  of  men  of 
noble  birth,  of  men  of  distinguished  career,  whose 
important  heredity  made  them  dangerous — (The 
Revolution  had  a  sharp  eye  for  just  such  people). 
An  assembly  such  as  only  could  be  found  in  France — 
grace,  wit,  charm,  superior  habits  of  living. 

It  was  a  glorious  thing,  the  way  they  amused  them- 
selves here,  and  the  way  they  went  to  death.     Madame 


THE  LITTLE  BLANCHEFLEURE  19 

Blanchefleure  was  as  much  at  home  with  these  dis- 
tinguished spirits,  as  a  butterfly  which  one  shelters  in 
a  hot  house  from  the  cold  of  winter.  The  death 
sentence  transforms  commonplace  people  into  sad 
figures  of  tragedy.  But  these  people — the  most  finely 
constructed  the  world  has  ever  seen — played  it  through 
like  a  comedy.  They  met  death  defiant  and  brave, 
with  head  erect — en  rococo — just  as  they  had  lived. 

And  now  about  my  great  grandfather,  Primus 
Thaller!  Since  that  first  of  May  he  had  not  been 
able  to  forget  little  Blanchefleure,  with  the  flower  face. 
He  thought  at  first  that  it  was  just  gratitude  on  his 
part,  and  carried  her  picture  about  as  a  monk  would 
the  Hkeness  of  the  Virgin.  The  great  Revolution 
swept  away,  along  with  impertinent,  merry  Versailles, 
and  the  old  nobility,  every  vestige  of  the  plan  for  the 
dairy  at  La  Reole.  But  the  little  Marquise  remem- 
bered about  honest  Primus  Thaller  who  nearly  lost 
his  life  because  of  the  ancient  decree.  He  became 
an  officer,  a  captain  upon  the  spot.  He  was  assigned 
to  a  regiment,  all  whose  distinguished  leaders  had  been 
killed,  and  in  their  places  saloon  keepers,  errand  boys, 
and  street  urchins  had  been  put ;  in  fact  all  the  dis- 
tinguished do-nothings  who  had  been  elevated  by  the 
Revolution.  He  did  not  feel  very  comfortable,  but 
he  took  the  money  and  that  pleased  him.  But  he  kept 
thinking  all  the  time:  *'I  wonder  what  has  become  of 
little  Blanchefleure?" 

Then  he  heard  that  the  Marquis  had  been  beheaded, 
and  that  the  little  widow  was  in  the  dungeon  of  the 
Temple  awaiting,   perhaps,  a  similar  end.    Ah! — at 


20  FAMOUS  STORIES 

that  thought  the  winds  of  freedom  began  to  riot  in 
his  heart !  Now  he  knew  that  he  was  in  love  with  her. 
Now  she  was  a  widow !  Now  she  was  poorer  than  a 
cow-girl  of  Appenzell;  now  he  could  marry  her. 

This  logic  surprised  him  as  much  as  a  mole  hill  in 
a  meadow  where  the  bees  hum.  His  brother,  who 
had  once  belonged  to  the  regiment  of  the  Prince  of 
Orleans,  did  duty  as  watchman  in  the  Temple. 

"Du  Quint eli!  is  there  with  you  imprisoned  a  young 
woman  who  wears  a  flowered  silk,  and  three  ostrich 
feathers  in  her  hair?'' 

"No,"  replied  Lieutenant  Quintus,  who  had  once 
been  drummer  boy.  "I  haven't  seen  any  one  like  that ! 
But  perhaps  she  has  taken  off  the  flowered  silk. 
Whafs  her  name?'' 

Primus  told  her  name  and  Quintus  began  to  ponder. 

"I  know  her  very  well — a  tidy  little  woman  who 
said  to  me  one  day:  "The  Americans  do  not  under- 
stand anything  of  our  fine  life,"  and  as  I  was  about  to 
tickle  her  under  the  chin,  thinking  I  knew  something 
about  it,  she  said:  "A  man  has  eyes  and  a  dog  has  a 
nose,  and  that  I  was  not  as  good  as  a  dog.  From 
America  nothing  good  can  come." 

Just  then  a  noble  gentleman,  Vicque  d'Azur  was 
brought  into  the  Temple.  He  had  let  the  soldiers  drag 
him  along  just  any  way,  but  now  he  heard  the  two 
brothers  talking  and  declared: 

"That  is  true — and  it  goes  still  deeper.  One  can 
despise  this  French  Revolution,  but  one  can  not  help 
but  be  afraid  of  that  cold,  American,  little-shop-keeper 
way  of  thinking.     A  mind  capable  of  forecasting  facts 


THE  LITTLE  BLANCHEFLEURE         21 

might  indeed  make  this  prophecy:  The  cultivation  of 
Europe  will  perish  one  day  because  of  this  shop-keeper 
thinking  of  the  United  States.  Because  of  this 
unfortunate  apeing,  we  shall  become  just  one  of 
America's  intellectual  colonies;  not  much  better  than 
Greece  since  Mummius  destroyed  inelegant  Rome. 
Our  artists  will  become  like  those  old  ones — able  only 
to  wave  broken  wings  of  longing.  The  Americans 
will  then  visit  with  a  holy  abhorrence  the  ruins  of  our 
life,  which  was  much  too  fine  for  them.  Europe  was 
original  for  the  last  time  in  May  1789."  When  he  had 
finished  speaking  the  soldiers  shoved  him  forward. 

"Friends,"  he  said  gently, — '*I  do  not  need  any 
suggestions  from  hostlers,"  and  disappeared  within  the 
dungeon  of  the  Temple. 

"What  does  the  fool  mean?"  queried  Quintus. 

Primus  thought  about  it,  but  he  couldn't  make  it 
clear.  Then  he  asked  permission  to  speak  to  the  little 
citizeness  widow,  Massimel. 

"Go  down  into  the  cellar  and  find  her,"  laughed 
Quintus.     "I  don't  dare  let  her  come  out." 

When  he  reached  the  cellar  he  was  amazed,  because 
what  he  saw  surpassed  the  power  of  the  imagination. 
Soft,  secretive  sounds  of  violin,  flute,  and  bass-viol 
flattered  the  ear,  and  slipped  along  the  wet  walls,  like 
a  little  kitten  on  a  silk  dress.  They  were  playing  upon 
instruments  that  had  been  smuggled  in.  M.Miradoux, 
first  violinist  of  the  Royal  Opera,  had  the  violin;  the 
flute,  Vicomte  Chantigny,  whose  breath  could  perform 
just  such  wonders  as  the  breath  of  the  west  wind. 
With  the  tenor-viol  the  Strasburg  canon,  Avenarius, 


22  FAMOUS  STORIES 

had  grown  humpbacked,  and  the  contra  bass  was 
played  by  the  celebrated  Abbe  Mervioli  of  Florence. 
A  silver  bribe — even  under  the  Revolution — could 
bring  golden  music  into  the  dungeons  of  the  Temple. 

The  delicate  serenade  of  Mozart! 

It  worked  wonders  here  in  the  twilight  dark — 
Palaces  towered  in  their  former  royal  splendor,  and 
graciously  listened  to  the  amiable  inspirations  of  the 
Salzburg  Music-Lord.  The  old  days  came  back, 
charmed  into  life,  in  defiance  of  the  Marseillaise  and 
Carmagnole.  Around  the  dungeon  walls  sat  noble 
lords  in  silk  hose,  and  ladies  in  thread  lace,  elegant 
and  aristocratic,  in  the  midst  of  misery — these  captives 
sacrificed  to  the  fury  of  the  mob.  Knee  crossed  over 
knee,  the  great  lords  sat,  and  the  ladies,  graceful  heads 
resting  upon  slender  hands — nothing  here  but  illus- 
trious nobles.  And  over  them  floated  the  fragile 
melodies  of  Wolfgang  Amades,  graceful  and  enchant- 
ing, Hke  clouds  of  incense. 

Near  the  end  of  the  Alegro  there  comes  a  passage 
lovelier  than  all  the  rest  of  that  lovely  melody,  as  if 
suddenly  the  player  had  remembered  a  soft,  little  hand 
that  stroked  his  cheek.  When  this  passage  came,  Herr 
Primus  heard  behind  him  a  whispered  **Ahr  He 
whirled  about — Blanchefleure.  She  held  up  one  little 
hand  as  a  signal  that  he  should  make  no  noise.  Soon 
the  music  was  over,  and  while  the  lords  and  ladies 
stopped  to  congratulate  the  players.  Captain  Thaller 
made  his  honorable  proposal  for  the  hand  of  the  poor, 
pale,  charming,  little  Blanchefleure.  She  listened  to 
him  with  astonishingly  arched  and  surprised  brows, 


THE  LITTLE  BLANCHEFLEURE         23 

as  he  began,  "Now  you  are  a  widow  and  just  as  poor 
as  any  cow-girl  of  Appenzell — ^thank  God." 

*'Ohr  she  exclaimed  doubtfully— "^ A?'' 

"Now  we  soldiers  are  the  whole  thing.  The  Revo- 
lution thought  it  annihilated  the  officer — and  it  made 
him  the  Lord  God.  1*11  take  you  out  of  this  hole — 
Quintus  will  find  a  way  to  do  it." 

"Wait,"  said  Blanchefleure — "there  comes  the  min- 
uet again." 

In  fact  the  musicians  began  to  play  again  that  en- 
chanting melody  of  the  old  days,  dancing  to  which 
one  said  more  with  eyes  and  finger  tips  than  the 
plebian  waltz  knows.  And  the  frivolous  crowd  took 
their  places  for  the  dance. 

"Perhaps  it  is  the  last  minuet,"  said  apologetically 
Blanchefleure,  with  her  graceful  laugh.  "I  should 
never  cease  regretting  not  having  danced  it — with  you, 
M.  Captain." 

The  poor  young  man  looked  down  at  her  confused, 
as  she  took  him  by  the  hand. 

"Don't  be  afraid.  We  have  now  equality  and  frat- 
ernity.   What — don't  you  believe  in  them?" 

The  sweet,  melancholy,  coquettish  dance  of  Frivol- 
ity which  was  about  to  die,  began.  It  was  the  minuet 
from  Don  Giovanni,  and  they  played  it  just  before  the 
stroke  of  fate — impertinent,  frivolous  and  graceful  as 
the  music.  As  they  approached.  Primus  Thaller  con- 
tinued with  his  honorable  wooing.  "I  love  you  as  no 
other  and  you  must  be  my  wife." 

The  teasing,  backward  movement  of  this  dance  of 
coquetry  carried  Blanchefleure  away  from  him.    Her 


24  FAMOUS  STORIES 

eyes  laughed,  but  she  said :  "What  foolish  things  you 
think  of.     You  haven't  any  taste,  my  Friend." 

Again  the  gentle  rythm  of  the  dance  brought  them 
together ;  their  hands  met.  "You  might  have  been  my 
lover,  down  there,  in  the  country — in  La  Reole,  where 
the  cow-bells  preach  of  nature.  I  always  had  my 
season  of  return  to  nature." 

And  she  bent  back  and  stepped  away  from  him  with 
coquettish  grace,  while  the  heart  of  poor  Primus  raged 
with  flames,  as  if  the  great,  destructive  Revolution 
were  confined  within  his  own  body.  Again  she  danced 
back.  "But  to  become  Madame  Thaller — my  dear, 
good,  honest  Friend  from  Appenzell !  What  are  you 
thinking  of?  One  could,  of  course,  kiss  you — just 
for  fun !  Ah ! — it  is  too  bad  we  could  not  have  played 
our  comedy  in  La  Reole.  A  stupid  shame!  Now  we 
must  renounce  the  kiss !  unless  you  are  willing  to  put 
up  with  kissing  my  hand?" 

They  had  reached  the  place  in  the  minuet,  where — 
upon  the  stage — Zerlina  destroys  the  sweet  frivolity. 
And,  although  the  gallant  gentlemen,  Miradoux, 
Vicomte  Chantigny,  Avenarius  and  Abbe  Merivoli 
changed  the  music  for  a  brief  uninterrupted  return  to 
a  merry  da  capo,  Fate  ordered  the  original  setting. 
The  door  was  thrown  open  and  a  harsh  saloon  keeper's 
voice  tore  in  shreds  the  flowery  chains  that  bound 
their  dream. 

"You — there — citizens  and  citizenesses !  Peace — in 
the  name  of  the  Republic !" 

The  dancers  knew  what  this  interruption  meant. 
It  was  the  daily  reading  of  the  names  of  those  sum- 


THE  LITTLE  BLANCHEFLEURE  25 

moned  to  court — to  hear  their  sentence  read.  Out 
of  the  Temple  the  road  lay  along  a  dark  street,  with 
only  one  little  window  of  exit — into  eternity — the 
guillotine.  This  time  the  name  of  the  little  citizeness 
Massimel  was  read. 

"Here!"  she  called;  but  her  face  grew  white. 

"Are  you  thinking  bf  my  offer  of  marriage?"  asked 
Primus  Thaller  stepping  up  behind  her.  The  poor,  pale 
Blanchefleure  looked  at  him  with  terrified  eyes,  above 
which  arched  her  amazing  eyebrows. 

"Ah! — God,  my  Friend!"  she  replied  pensively. 
"You  republicans  can  not  even  let  us  enjoy  the  dance. 
Over  there  in  the  corner  sits  my  little  maid,  who 
insisted  upon  being  imprisoned  with  me.  Zenobe! 
Dance  on  with  this  young  fellow!  Please  excuse  me 
on  account  of  this  ridiculous  interruption — and  take 
her  in  my  stead.  She  is  a  charming  child.  Adieu, 
my  Friend!" 

And  M.  Miradoux,  the  incorrigible  of  the  ancien 
regime,  began  that  enchanting  melody  of  Mozart, 
softly,  softly^ — ^laughing  gently,  the  couples  took  their 
places  as  before.  But  little  Zenobe  did  not  dare  to 
join  them.  She  wept  for  terror,  and  my  great  grand- 
father did  not  care  to  dance  with  the  little  maid.  He 
turned  his  back  coldly  on  them  all. 

That  was  the  memorable  minuet  which  Captain 
Primus  Thaller  danced  with  the  distinguished  nobil- 
ity of  France.  It  was  the  last  minuet  of  the  rococo 
period,  and  its  grace  and  sweetness  was  interrupted 
by  the  summons  of  the  tribunal  of  the  Jacobins.  Cap- 
tain Primus,  with  a  heavy  heart,  climbed  the  stairs 


26  FAMOUS  STORIES 

back  to  the  daylight,  and  little  Blanchefleure  left  the 
dungeon  to  appear  before  the  tribunal. 
'^  The  trial  room  was  like  a  wine  shop.    Four  or  five 
rough  men  crouched  about,  dirty  and  evil  of  mind 
like  savage  peasant  dogs. 

"Citizeness  Blanchefleure  Massimel?  Widow?" 
snarled  one  of  them. 

"If  that  is  the  way  you  wish — " 

"Formerly   of  the  court   of  citizeness   Antoinette 
Capet?" 
^^"Of  whom  are  you  speaking?       The  Queenryou 
should  say!" 

"Ah! — should  we?  Write  that  down.  Citizen  Pou- 
prac.     She  said  Queen." 

"I  think  that  is  sufficient,"  growled  Pouprac.  Then 
he  looked  up  wickedly. 

"Why  do  you  laugh,  Citizeness?  You  are  insulting 
the  court !    Why  do  you  laugh  ?" 

"Good  Heavens — how  you  look!"  chattered  poor, 
little  Blanchefleure,  her  face  turning  deep  red. 

"When  one  wears  such  trousers — ^as  you!"  she 
covered  her  little  face  with  her  hands  and  laughed  and 
laughed  and  laughed. 

Pouprac  glanced  at  his  trousers  which  were  made 
of  red,  white  and  blue  cotton.  They  testified  to  his 
republican  leanings. 

He  jumped  up  in  a  rage,  and  stood  on  his  short,  wide- 
spread tiger  legs. 

"You  are  condemned  to  death,  Citizeness  Massi- 
mel," he  roared.  "You  are  condemned  because  you 
have  insulted  the  flag  of  France!" 


THE  LITTLE  BLANCHEFLEURE         ^y 

The  little  Marquise  took  her  hands  down  from  her 
face  and  looked  at  him.  She  sniffed  with  her  little 
nose,  and  arched  her  brows. 

**You — you  would  judge  me!  Go  wash  yourself — 
and  put  on  hose — ^before  you  can  be  of  any  service 
whatever  to  me !" 

And  she  went  away.  They  say  she  laughed  upon 
the  scaffold. 

My  great  grandfather  heard  that  she  was  not  wil- 
ling to  have  her  hair  cut  off. 

"Is  that  really  necessary?"  she  asked.  "The  heads- 
man can  use  my  hair  as  a  handle  to  hold  my  head  up 
to  show  it  to  the  crowd — as  is  the  custom." 

When  the  Sans-culotte,  in  his  huge  apron,  stood  be- 
fore her,  she  shrugged  the  sweetest  little  shoulders  and 
declared:  "I  don't  care!  I  knew,  of  course,  when 
you  came  to  cut  my  head  off,  that  you  had  no  aesthetic 
sense.    And  I  have  always  been  right." 

After  these  last  inspired  words,  she  died,  the  poor, 
little,  trembling  woman.  She  died,  and  all  they  who 
would  have  wept  for  her  were  dead,  too,  or  preparing 
to  die. 

So  no  one  knew  what  became  of  beautiful  Blanche- 
fleure,  who  had  always  been  right.  And  my  poor, 
great  grandfather  he  had  never  understood  her.  On- 
^y  I — only  I!  I  understand  her,  I  who  bought  her 
picture  from  the  second-hand  dealer— as  a  sort  of 
revenge  upon  them  of  a  later  day  who  did  not  care 
to  be  a  great,  great  grandmother. 


28  FAMOUS  STORIES 

Lucky  for  her  that  she  was  not!  She  remained, 
instead,  young — always  young — and  an  object  of  love. 

And  I  can  love  her  as  the  honorable  Primus  Thaller 
loved  her — only  better;  with  more  intelligence,  with 
more  aesthetic  joy. 

She  was  always  right,  and  I  long  for  her  today. 


THE    EXCHANGE 
By  SVATOPLUK  CECH 


CECH 

SvATOPLUK  Cech  was  bom  in  1846  and  ranks  as  one 
of  the  most  important  figures  of  the  literature  of 
Bohemia,  both  in  prose  and  verse. 

Among  his  popular  ballads  and  story  telling  poems 
are — The  Lark,  The  Smith  of  Lesetin,  In  Shadow 
of  the  Linden,  The  Goblet  of  Youth. 

In  prose  he  has  written  many  stories  and  sketches 
distinguished  by  that  gay  and  fantastic  humor  which 
strikes  us  as  peculiarly  the  property  of  certain  south- 
central  races  of  Europe,  such  as  the  Poles,  Bohemians, 
and  Hungarians.  These  stories  by  Cech  frequently 
show  the  light  touch  and  splendid  surface  that  is 
characteristic  of  French  prose,  with  the  addition  of  a 
brilliant  irony  that  drives  home  successfully  the  point 
he  wishes  to  make.  Several  volumes  of  stories  of 
merit  stand  to  the  credit  of  Cech. 


THE  EXCHANGE 
Chapter  I. 

Here  is  the  pocket  book  of  the  hero  of  this  story, 
Mr.  Alfred  N — .  I  ask  you  to  take  it  and  look  into 
it.  You  see  several  compartments,  and  in  them, — 
nothing.  We  turn  the  pocket  book  upside  down  and 
shake  it.    What  falls  out?    Nothing. 

Twilight  clings  to  the  comers  of  the  room.  The 
clothes  closet  yawns  toward  us — empty.  The  bed 
dreams  in  vain  of  luxurious  pillows.  The  book  cases 
are  empty.  Poverty  grins  from  every  comer.  The 
cold  pipe  falls  from  the  hands  of  the  occupant  of  the 
room.  The  bitter  smile  disappears;  the  eyelids  close, 
— the  golden  dreams  have  vanished. 

Some  one  knocked  softly.  Alfred  jumped  up. 
Should  he  open  the  door?  It  was  probably  a  mistake. 
None  of  his  acquaintances  would  come  to  see  him  now 
because  they  knew  he  had  nothing  which  they  could 
borrow.  Cautiously  he  opened  the  door,  being  mind- 
ful of  his  worn  trousers,  and  the  pitiful  fragment  of 
a  coat  that  hung  from  his  shoulders. 

A  diminutive  man  stepped  into  the  room.  His  neg- 
lected appearance  fitted  exactly  the  words  he  said : 

"Old  clothes — dear  Sir!    Aron  pays — pays  finer 
31 


32  FAMOUS  STORIES 

The  bitter  smile  reappeared  on  the  face  of  Alfred. 

"I  have  nothing !"  he  replied  to  the  Jew. 

But  the  Jew  did  not  permit  himself  to  be  dismissed 
so  easily. 

He  pushed  his  way  into  the  room,  and  peered  in- 
quisitively about. 

"Perhaps  you'll  find  something.  Old  shoes^ — ^books. 
Aron  buys  everything,  everything,  everything!*' 

"Look  for  yourself,"  commanded  Alfred,  bitterly. 
"Here  is  the  clothes  closet;  here  are  the  book  cases, 
here—" 

"As  God  is  good,  not  a  thing!"  declared  the  Jew, 
amazed.  "It's  as  if  it  has  just  been  swept  out!  Too 
bad — Young  Man!  Too  bad!  Aron  pays — pays 
finer  At  these  words  he  drew  from  his  dirty  caftan 
a  leathern  purse  and  began  to  shake  it.  The  bright 
sound  of  gold  rang  out ;  the  alluring  voice  of  the  metal, 
more  alluring  than  the  voice  of  a  siren.  Alfred  trem- 
bled at  the  sound.  His  eyes  looked  greedily  upon  the 
dirty  purse.  Over  the  face  of  the  Jew  flashed  light- 
ning swift  a  look  of  satisfaction.  Patting  lovingly 
the  fat  purse  he  continued: 

"Aron  pays — pays  fine!  Aron  buys  everything, 
everything,  everything !" 

"But  can't  you  see  that  I  haven't  a  thing  to  sell?" 
demanded  Alfred  angrily. 

"Certainly  the  gentleman  has  something — for  which 
Aron  will  pay  many,  many  pieces  of  gold — " 

"Stop  this  humbug,  Jew!  If  you  don't,  I'll  throw 
you  down  stairs  and  straight  into  Abraham's  bosom !" 

"Aron  knows  what  he  says",  replied  the  Jew,  in 


THE  EXCHANGE  33 

a  wheedling,  submissive  voice.  "The  gentleman  has 
a  precious  jewel  for  which  Aron  will  pay  whatever 
the  gentleman  may  ask/' 

He  plunged  his  bent  fingers  into  the  deep  purse. 
Alfred  followed  the  gesture  with  sparkling  eyes  and 
replied : 

"Speak  out!  What  is  it  that  I  can  sell  to  you? 
What  is  it  that  I  have  that  I  know  nothing  about?'' 

The  Jew  came  nearer  and  whispered:  ''Character/' 

Alfred  surveyed  him  with  surprised  eyes.  "Char- 
acter?   Are  you  a  fool?" 

The  Jew  stepped  back,  straightened  up  and  spoke 
boastingly. 

"The  gentleman  is  surprised?  Well — Aron  buys 
everything;  worn  out  clothes,  the  virtue  of  women, 
old  umbrellas,  honor,  trash,  and  the  divine  fire  of 
genius,  rabbits'  skins — Aron  buys  the  entire  world. 
Why  should  he  not  buy  character?  Character  is  a 
rare  thing  nowadays^ — and  valuable.  There  are  plenty 
of  people  without  character — " 

Alfred  regarded  the  speaker  with  terror.  Through 
the  window  the  last  light  of  the  setting  sun  penetrated 
and  gave  the  Jew  a  sort  of  ghostly,  inhuman  appear- 
ance. The  purse  in  his  hand  became  red  hot  like  a 
coal.  The  unkempt  hair  and  beard  were  changed  into 
threads  of  gold.  Gold  gleamed  from  every  fold  of  his 
caftan.  It  gleamed  from  his  features,  and  it  was  as 
if  two  golden  ducats  shone  from  his  eyes.  The  Demon 
of  Gold  stood  before  him,  bent  of  neck,  with  greedy 
claw-like  fingers,  that  were  ready  to  fall  upon  any 
prey  and  crush  the  Ufe-blood  out. 


34  FAMOUS  STORIES 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  two  hands.  When  he 
looked  up  again  the  sun  had  set,  and  the  Jew  had 
resumed  his  ordinary  appearance.  The  nimbus  of  gold 
had  vanished.  "Well,  my  dear  Sir,  will  you  sell  your 
character?  Aron  pays — pays  fine.  There  is  a  great 
sale  for  character  just  now — and  not  much  to  meet 
the  demand.  Will  you  sell?  Aron  will  pay  you  a 
prodigious  sum." 

The  Jew  took  a  ducat  from  the  purse  and  held  it 
up  between  his  fingers.  Alfred  looked  longingly  to- 
ward the  shining  circle,  then  he  turned  his  head  away 
and  replied  firmly ;  ''No, — I  will  not  sell !" 

The  Jew  shook  his  head. 

"No?  By  heaven, — a  fine  character!  Til  give 
twice  as  much  for  it.  Three  times — a  noble  charac- 
ter! No?  I'll  make  you  a  millionaire!  You  shall 
dwell  in  palaces,  drink  wine  of  the  choicest  vintage, 
kiss  the  sweetest  lips — " 

Alfred  looked  about  as  if  some  beautiful  vision 
floated  before  him  in  space.  Then  he  repeated  with 
a  sigh :  "I  will  not  sell." 

""Well — just  as  the  gentleman  pleases.  Keep  your 
character  together  with  your  misery.  Aron  will  keep 
his  gold.  I  bid  you  good  day."  He  threw  the  ducats 
back  into  the  purse,  placed  it  in  his  caftan,  and  turned 
to  go  away.     In  the  door  he  paused  ^nd  looked  back. 

"Aron  has  a  good  heart.  He  does  not  like  to  leave 
a  man  like  you  in  such  misery.  Do  you  know  some- 
thing? ril  lend  you  the  gold,  and  you  pledge  me  your 
character.  How  does  this  offer  please  the  gentle- 
man?" 


THE  EXCHANGE  35 

» 

Alfred  meditated.  He  looked  about  the  room;  the 
closet  was  empty.  The  bed  had  no  pillows.  The 
book  cases  were  empty — everywhere  poverty.  He 
made  a  despondent  gesture.  "Well,  take  it! — 
I  pledge  it"  Then  he  paused.  How  could  a  person 
pawn  his  character?  That  was  the  dream  of  a  foolish 
brain. 

"I  know  what  worries  the  gentleman.  And  Aron 
knows  help  for  it,  too."  He  took  from  his  pocket 
some  little  pill  boxes,  opened  and  closed  them.  ''Look 
— here  is  your  character,"  he  replied  scornfully,  tap- 
ping upon  the  cover  of  a  box.  Alfred  looked  at  the 
little  box.  In  the  dim  light  he  read  the  superscription : 
"Noble  characters !" 

"Look- — see  how  I  classify  character — all  according 
to  merit." 

"'Here  you  have  old  fashioned  Bohemian  characters. 
They  belong  to  old  people — with  long  beards.  Here 
are  light  characters — comparatively  cheap — ^but  not 
durable.  I  have  to  guard  them  constantly  against 
changing  winds.  Sometimes  politicians  buy  these 
characters  for  presents.  In  this  box  are  found  stern, 
upright  characters.  They  are  often  found  at  army 
headquarters.  But  what  do  you  care  about  them? 
You'd  rather  see  the  money  counted  out."  He  took  out 
another  purse  and  piled  shining  ducats  one  upon  an- 
other. Suddenly  he  paused.  '*In  five  years,  at  this 
same  hour,  Aron  will  come  again,  no  matter  where  you 
may  be.  Then  if  you  do  not  pay  me  back  the  sum  with 
interest,  the  character  belongs  to  me." 

Alfred  nodded.    The  ghostly  Jew  grabbed  deeper 


36  FAMOUS  STORIES 

and  deeper  within  the  purse.  With  fabulous  swift- 
ness gold  coins  were  piled  up  to  the  ceiling  like  great 
columns  of  marble.  The  purse  evidently  was  inex- 
haustible. The  more  gold  he  took  out,  the  more  gold 
there  was  in  it.     God  give  all  men  a  purse  like  this ! 

Chapter  II. 

Five  years  passed. 

Alfred  stood  in  the  center  of  a  merry  crowd  where 
champagne  flowed  like  a  river.  Diamonds  flashed; 
silks  and  velvets  rustled.  Sparkling  fountains,  bright 
shadows  on  water,  penetrating  perfumes,  splendid  gar- 
dens,— all  this  the  Demon  of  Gold  had  brought  to- 
gether in  one  place.  Alfred,  too,  has  changed.  He  is 
heavier  and  more  round  bodied.  His  cheeks  glow  with 
health ;  his  eyes  shine  with  contentment.  It  is  evident 
that  he  had  been  drinking  from  the  cup  of  pleasure, 
with  the  careful  discernment  of  the  epicure.  Over 
there  sits  his  wife.  Is  she  that  beautiful  motionless 
maiden,  whose  vision  had  so  moved  him  five  years 
ago?  Not  at  all!  The  ice  of  her  heart  had  melted 
under  the  glow  of  Alfred's  blazing  ducats.  The  vision 
charmed  him  no  more,  that  had  once  enticed  him.  He 
did  not  love  her  and  she  did  not  love  him.  They 
treated  each  other  courteously  before  the  world,  but 
in  private^ — what  a  difference. 

The  lack  of  character  of  Alfred  was  an  open  secret. 
Every  one  remarked  about  it,  yet  he  carried  his  head 
high,  and  everyone  bowed  before  him.  His  breast 
was  covered  with  orders.  The  highest  honors  were 
his.     Fathers  held  him   up   to   their  sons   as   model. 


THE  EXCHANGE  37 

''See," — they  say — "how  he  has  advanced." 

In  that  same  garret  where  he  used  to  sit,  there  is  a 
pale  youth  in  shabby  sHppers  and  ragged  coat,  dedi- 
cating to  him  a  long  poem  about  the  exalted  goal  of 
human  endeavor. 

And  I — I  would  rather  write  an  Ode  to  Gold! 
Such  an  one  were  worthy  of  the  age.  Dershawin's 
*'Ode  to  God"  is  old  fashioned.  It  has  no  merit  for 
our  age  except  the  form  in  which  the  Emperor  of 
China  has  preserved  it — in  letters  of  gold  upon  a  ban- 
ner of  silk. 

Gold  is  the  god  of  the  age!  Heaven  announces  its 
glory;  above  the  moon  (on  the  dollar),  and  the  stars 
(on  small  silver  pieces)  shines  the  giant  ducat — the 
sun.  Upon  earth  we  pray  to  it — in  the  monstrance 
and  the  cross.  Under  different  names  we  serve  it; 
some  as  faith,  love,  right,  truth, — others  in  sinful 
Mammon.  For  the  sake  of  gold  we  preach  morality, 
we  shed  blood  on  the  fields  of  battle.  For  the  sake  of 
gold — with  a  dull  pen — I  write  this  satire.  O  !  shining, 
mighty,  divine  metal — I  praise  you,  prostrated  in  the 
dust  before  you.  Surely,  Dear  Brothers  in  Gold,  you 
will  pardon  me  this  diversion. 

A  servant  resplendent  in  gold  braid,  announced  to 
Alfred,  that  a  dirty  Jew  was  waiting  who  insisted  upon 
coming  in. 

"Take  him  to  my  study",  he  ordered. 

It  is  a  softly  sensuous,  luxurious  room.  From  base- 
board to  ceiling,  the  walls  are  covered  with  pictures 
of  beautiful  women,  gorgeously  dressed. 

Again  Alfred  and  the  ghostly  Jew  are  face  to  face. 


38  FAMOUS  STORIES 

"You  are  late,"  said  Alfred,  glancing  at  the  clock. 

"Yes — on  account  of  bribes,"  was  the  reply.  "And 
I  lost  a  noble  character,  too,  which  I  bought  abroad. 
On  the  boundary  they  confiscated  it.  One  would 
think  character  contraband  of  war." 

"You  bring  my  pawned  pledge  back,  do  you  ?"  inter- 
rupted Alfred. 

"Of  course.  Your  Grace!"  repHed  the  Jew,  and 
drew  from  his  pocket  the  little  dirty  box. 

"Keep  it!  Keep  it!  I  don't  care  anything  about 
it.  I  am  convinced  that  one  lives  better  without  char- 
acter.    But  there  is  something  I'd  like  to  sell  you." 

"Well?" 

"A  little  feeling  of  shame  that  has  remained  with 
me — and  sometimes  makes  me  uncomfortable." 

Aron  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his  head  and 
laughed  disagreeably. 

"Nothing  doing!  The  article  is  out  of  fashion — 
something  nobody  buys.  As  a  proof — Your  Grace — I 
beg  you  to  consider  these  portraits  which  hang  upon 
your  walls — " 


CHAI 
By  AWETIS  AHARONEAN 


AHARONEAN 

In  the  village  of  Igdir — not  far  from  the  boundaries 
where  Russia,  Persia  and  Turkey  are  close  together — 
this  writer  was  bom  in  1866.  He  went  to  school  in  the 
village,  and  later  attended  the  famous  Armenian 
cloister  school,  Etschmiadsin.  After  finishing  the 
prescribed  course  of  study  there,  he  taught  for  ten 
years,  until,  in  fact,  the  Armenian  schools  were  closed. 
Then  in  order  to  earn  a  livelihood,  he  became  a  news- 
paper man,  and  his  activities  took  him  to  Switzerland 
and  to  the  Caucasus.  Later  he  obtained  an  editorial 
position  in  Tiflis. 

He  has  published  a  good  many  short  stories  and  he 
is  particularly  popular  among  his  people.  He  belongs 
to  the  new  school  of  Armenian  writers.  The  scene 
of  a  good  many  of  his  stories,  is  the  little  village  where 
he  was  bom. 


CHAI 

It  was  night;  winter  and  snow.  The  night  was  so 
dark,  so  full  of  terror  that  people  in  the  little  mount- 
ain village  of  O —  could  not  remember  when  they  last 
saw  day  and  the  sun;  bright  light  and  blue  sky.  The 
wind  blew,  too!  And  what  a  wind  it  was.  It  was 
as  if  it  came  from  some  world  of  the  dead,  because 
in  its  voice  there  was  something  that  made  the  nerves 
tremble  and  painted  horror  before  the  brain.  It 
played  with  the  snow,  and  the  play  was  the  play  of  a 
demon.  Not  only  people  shivered,  but  the  entire 
mountain  village,  its  poor  little  houses,  its  hay  stacks, 
and  the  dry  mounds  of  manure  piled  up  for  burning. 
And  one  could  not  tell  whether  the  shivering  was 
because  of  the  cold,  or  because  of  the  accursed  storm 
that  was  raging.  For  these  mountain  village  dwellers, 
thunder  and  lightning,  storm  and  cold,  were  not  merely 
harmless  caprices  of  nature.  The  peasants  knew  how 
sad  the  result  might  be.  Why  should  they  not  be 
afraid  and  tremble!  But  it  was  lucky  that  the  sign 
of  the  cross  was  sure  protection  against  lightning; 
and  for  the  snow  storm  there  was  the  stable  and  the 
sakhi."^ 

Woi — woi — howled    the    storm.     Every    time    its 
terrifying  voice  rang  out,  the  men  in  the  sahhi  of 

♦Sakhi,  a  windowless  room,  containing  a  fire  place. 
41 


42  FAMOUS  STORIES 

Melikh-Shalim,  who  were  lined  up  along  the  wall 
facing  each  other,  ceased  speaking,  took  the  pipes  out 
of  their  mouths  and  drew  nearer  together. 

Lord  God! — snow  and  cold  must  come  in  their  time, 
but  this  storm — this  fearful  storm — for  what  can  it 
be  good?  No  one  dared  interpret  the  voice  of  the 
great  storm.  For  each  one  of  them  it  was  the  mighty 
song  of  destiny,  which  the  storm-wind — the  eternal 
wanderer — had  constructed  out  of  the  sorrows  of  the 
world,  out  of  the  sighs  of  the  helpless,  and  the  tears 
of  suffering.  Thus  thought  the  frightened  peasants  in 
the  sakhi. 

Woi — Woi — the  wind  grew  stronger.  The  sakhi 
creaked  and  trembled.  Sometimes  it  sounded  as  if 
someone  were  walking  heavily  across  the  roof. 

"Hell  has  broken  loose!"  declared  one,  in  order  to 
have  something  to  say.  "I  would  not  wish  my  worst 
enemy  to  be  upon  the  mountain  tonight !'' 

"Upon  the  mountain !"  answered  another  scornfully. 
"As  if  you  had  courage  enough  to  walk  to  the  wine 
garden.  And  you  talk  of  the  mountain!  Heaven  and 
earth  are  fighting  each  other  tonight." 

Again  silence  reigned  in  the  sakhi.  They  were  busy 
thinking. 

The  door  creaked  ominously.  All  looked  in  that 
direction.  In  the  dim  light,  the  form  of  a  man, 
wrapped  in  a  herdsman's  cape  was  visible.  He  looked 
like  a  heap  of  snow. 

"Good  evening,"  said  the  newcomer,  shaking  tiie 
snow  from  his  shoulders. 


CHAI  43 

"Gk)d  is  good  to  you,  Chai.  Come  up — ^you  must 
be  frozen." 

"Make  room !  Give  him  a  place  to  sit." 
"By  heaven,  I'm  frozen",  he  replied.  I  couldn't  stay 
out  another  minute.  I  thought  the  sky  was  cracking 
over  my  head.  They  are  frightened  in  the  village, 
too.  I  said  to  myself,  I'll  go  to  the  sakhi,  I'll  warm 
myself,  and  then  I'll  go  out  again." 

He  seated  himself  beside  the  wall. 

Above  the  buchar*  in  a  blackened  space,  hung  the 
oil  lamp.  The  sad  flame  trembled  and  wavered,  as  if 
it,  too,  were  terrified  by  the  voice  of  the  wind.  But 
it  gave  sufficient  light  to  show  some  of  the  faces  under 
the  lamb's  fur  caps.  An  occasional  pale  line  of  light 
fell  upon  the  new  comer.  It  was  a  peasant's  face 
which  hard  work  and  suffering  had  made  harsh.  He 
was  a  young  man  but  he  had  the  appearance  of  having 
lived  much.  Under  his  short  mustache  were  two  thick 
lips  so  tightly  pressed  together  that  they  gave  the 
impression  of  stubbornness.  The  eyes  were  small, 
but  full  of  fire.  He  was  the  village  watchman.  And 
he  was  an  Armenian.  Many  of  his  race  had  attempted 
to  live  in  the  mountain  village,  but  they  had  been 
driven  away.  Only  this  one  had  remained  like  a 
deserted  crane.  He  did  not  want  to  beg,  so  he  became 
watchman.  The  villagers  did  not  know  his  name. 
Instead  of  Nacho  they  called  him  Mcho,  some  even 
Mko,  but  at  last  they  agreed  upon  the  name  of  Chai. 

*Buchar,  an  open  fire  place. 


44  FAMOUS  STORIES 

It  was  an  easy  word  to  say.  And  he  was  really  Qiai* 
from  the  village  Osm. 

The  sakhi  was  warm.  The  snow  storm  continued. 
The  wind  roared  like  a  wounded  bull. 

"  Twas  a  night  like  this  when  that  poor  fellow  was 
surprised — yes,"  declared  Gewo,  the  magistrate. 
"How  could  he  help  it?*' 

He  spoke  of  a  peasant  who  had  perished  in  a  snow 
storm  on  the  mountain  a  few  days  before. 

"How  often  have  we  said  it — it  is  not  wise  to  run 
about  in  the  snow/'  observed  another. 

"What  nonsense  you  talk!  He  had  to  go!"  thun- 
dered Melikh.     "Who  can  escape  fate?" 

"True,  true,  Melikh,"  some  agreed.  "What  is 
written  by  fate  is  written." 

They  agree  that  man  is  the  toy  of  fate.  Against 
this  nothing  prevailed. 

"I  don't  believe  in  fate!"  called  a  voice  from  the 
comer  by  the  sakhi  All  eyes  turned  toward  him. 
The  surprise  was  universal. 

"Who  is  this  brave  man?"  inquired  Melikh  scorn- 
fully. 

"I  am  your  servant,  MeUkh.  But  I  do  not  believe 
in  fate,"  repeated  the  same  voice  doggedly. 

The  men  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  to  be 
angry.  The  one  who  did  not  believe  in  all  powerful 
fate  was  the  miserable  Chai. 

"The  meanest  goat  can  lose  his  temper,"  murmured 
Melikh,  half  in  scorn  and  half  in  wrath.     The  declara- 

*Chai,  colloQuial  for  Haj,  meaning  Armenian. 


CHAI  45 

tion  of  Chai  had  aroused  them.  Melikh,  the  rich, 
powerful  MeHkh,  believed  in  fate — and  feared  it. 
The  magistrate,  Gewo,  before  whose  decisions  they 
trembled,  like  aspen  leaves,  was  afraid  of  it.  And  the 
head  of  the  church — no  matter  what  he  sermonized 
about — in  the  end  reverted  to  the  subject  of  fate. 
They  were  all  subject  to  this  powerful  influence. 

''No — /  don't  believe  in  your  fate"  repeated  Chai, 
as  he  took  notice  of  the  scornful  looks  directed  toward 
him.  "I  could  prove  to  you  all  in  a  moment  that  I  am 
right,  if  I  did  not  have  to  go  out  and  make  the  round 
of  the  village  again." 

"Stay!     Stay !"  they  called. 

"Magistrate  tell  him  to  stay." 

At  command  of  the  magistrate  Chai  sat  down 
again. 

In  that  year  there  were  ten  of  us — ten  mad  men. 
The  Turks  and  Kurds  called  us  conspirators.  The 
Armenians  called  us  defenders  and  saviors.  We  and 
the  eagles  became  the  lonely  lords  of  the  mountains. 
We  were  alike,  too,  in  the  way  we  swept  down  upon 
our  prey.  How  many  dogs  of  Turks  and  Kurds  did 
we  not  kill!  Sometimes  they  hunted  us.  Then  we 
disappeared  and  they  could  not  find  us.  It  was  not 
easy  to  find  us,  and  when  they  did  find  us,  it  was  not 
easy  to  meet  us. 

One  day  we  were  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Sim, 
when  supplies  gave  out.  It  fell  to  my  lot  to  forage 
food.  I  knew  where  there  were  villages,  but  whether 
the  inhabitants  were  destroyed  or  alive  I  did  not  know. 
In  broad  daylight  I  climbed  down  from  our  mountain 


46  FAMOUS  STORIES 

nest,  without  a  weapon,  without  even  a  stick.  For  a 
time  all  went  well  and  I  met  no  one.  Before  me  rose 
another  mountain.  I  must  go  over  it  and  down  into 
the  valley  on  the  other  side.  I  climbed  and  cUmbed. 
Just  before  I  reached  the  top,  a  Kurd  jumped  up, 
a  horriidie*  well  armed. 

"Good  day,"  I  said  carelessly. 

"Good  day,  Armenian,"  the  Kurd  replied.  He  did 
not  pass  me,  but  stepped  in  front  of  me.  I  continued 
my  way,  but  I  felt  that  the  Kurd  was  still  standing 
there,  and  following  me  with  his  eyes.  I  did  not 
hasten.    I  was  afraid  of  arousing  suspicion. 

"Armenian — wait!  Wait !"  suddenly  called  the  voice 
of  the  Kurd.  I  looked  back,  then  stopped.  It  is  fate, 
I  thought.  Fate  might  well  take  the  form  of  a  Kurd. 
A  gun  rested  upon  his  shoulder;  there  was  a  moon 
shaped  blade  by  his  side,  a  dagger  with  an  ivory  handle 
stuck  in  his  girdle.  I  saw  that  his  eyes  were  those  of 
an  angry  wolf.     He  came  nearer. 

"At  this  time,  in  this  place,  there  should  be  no 
Armenians.    Who  are  you?    Where  are  you  going?" 

"Kurd,"  I  replied,  "the  time  is  bad,  I  know,  but  do 
not  forget  that  we  are  neighbors.  I  say  to  you  as  a 
neighbor  that  I  am  from  Chnt.  We  are  starving  there 
— that  you  know.  I  am  on  the  way  to  Derdschan  to 
get  bread  for  my  children.    Let  me  go  in  peace." 

"You  can't  deceive  me,  Armenian !  You  are  a  bad 
lot." 

"You  have  a  God,  too,  Kurd.  You  see  I  have  no 
weapon.    There  is  not  even  a  knife  in  my  pocket.    If 

♦Hornidie — name  of  a  Turkish  regiment. 


CHAI  47 

I  were  a  bad  lot  what  could  I  accomplish  with  just 
two  hands  ?     I  beg  you,  let  me  go  in  peace !" 

"Walk  in  front  of  me.  I'll  give  you  over  to  the 
law." 

"To  the  law!  You  could  not  do  anything  worse 
when  you  know  the  police  are  seeking  us.  Do  not  do 
that,  Kurd!  Even  if  I  were  set  free,  it  would  delay 
me.  My  children  are  suffering.  They  are  dying  of 
hunger.  For  God's  sake,  Kurd, — brother,  neighbor, 
let  me  go!"  The  Kurd  was  unshakable.  It  is  my 
fate,  I  thought  and  walked  on.  What  could  I  do? 
He  was  armed.    I  was  not. 

Around  us  the  world  was  beautiful.  The  sky  was 
clear  and  blue,  the  mountains  green.  Birds  flew 
about;  everywhere  was  life  and  happiness.  Above, 
high  in  the  air,  a  crane  flew,  free  and  bold.  Forgetting 
the  danger  of  my  position,  I  looked  up  at  the  bird  and 
envied  it. 

The  Kurd  walked  on  in  silence.  He  looked  at  me. 
Our  eyes  met,  and  for  some  seconds  we  were  both 
unable  to  look  away.  Each  tried  to  find  out  what  was 
hidden  in  the  thought  of  the  other.  Is  not  the  eye  the 
involuntary  betrayor  of  the  mind?  I  understood  that 
the  Kurd  had  made  up  his  mind  to  kill  me.  That  I 
read  plainly.  I  began  to  meditate.  I  sought  for  help. 
But  what  help  was  there  for  me?  At  this  moment 
my  eyes  rested^  upon  the  handsome  dagger  which  the 
Kurd  carried  in  his  girdle.  If  I  only  had  that  in  my 
hand ! 

"Go  on,"  commanded  the  Kurd.  "Why  are  you 
stopping?" 


48  FAMOUS  STORIES 

I  walked  on.  We  were  going  through  a  lonely, 
uninhabited  valley.  The  Kurd  became  restless,  and 
began  to  look  about.  He  kept  taking  the  gun  from  his 
shoulder  and  then  putting  it  back  again.  I  felt  that 
my  end  was  near.  I  began  to  walk  slower.  I  did  not 
dare  step  in  front  of  the  Kurd.  That  would  make 
him  angry. 

"Quick — quick!  Go  on!"  he  urged.  He  was  con- 
stantly trying  to  make  me  walk  in  front  of  him.  I 
made  an  effort  to  walk  evenly  with  him.  We  both 
seemed  to  understand  that  we  were  fighting  a  silent 
battle  for  life.  Suddenly  I  stopped.  My  sandal 
strings  were  untied.  The  Kurd  came  up  beside  me 
and  paused.  Without  lifting  my  head  I  observed  his 
position.  He  stood  on  my  right,  and  the  ivory  handle 
of  the  dagger  gleamed  from  his  girdle  close  beside  me. 

"Make  haste,  Armenian!"  he  called  angrily. 

I  lifted  my  head  quickly,  snatched  the  dagger  from 
his  girdle,  and  before  he  knew  what  had  happened,  I 
buried  the  entire  blade  in  his  breast.  He  roared  like 
an  animal,  then  fell  to  the  ground.  I  was  saved. 
And  this  is  the  dagger  that  saved  me." 

Chai  drew  from  his  girdle  a  dagger  with  a  handle 
of  ivory,  and  held  it  up  for  his  listeners  to  see.  They 
fell  upon  their  knees  and  examined  the  weapon 
carefully.  The  poor,  shabby  Chai  had  become  a  hero. 
He  was  a  brave  man  who  ruled  his  own  fate.  He 
snapped  his  fingers  at  it. 

"I  don't  believe  in  fate,"  he  declared  again  doggedly. 
This  time  his  words  brought  forth  neither  laughter  nor 
scorn.     Chai  took  his  dagger,  stuck  it  in  his  girdle  and 


CHAI  49 

went  out.  The  others  were  silent.  Outside  the  wind 
howled,  but  it  no  longer  terrified  them  with  the  implac- 
ability of  fate.  Under  the  manifold  wild  voices  of  the 
night,  they  seemed  to  hear  human  voices  crying — 
"Revenge !    Revenge !" 


IN  PRISON 
By  AWETIS  AHARONEAN 


IN    PRISON 

Chapter  I. 

It  was  midnight.  Oppressive  silence  reigned  in  the 
prison.  Occasionally  one  caught  the  sound  of  the  heavy, 
even  tread  of  the  watchman.  The  little  round  holes 
in  the  tower  of  cells  looked  very  black  against  the 
space  about  them.  They  looked  like  great  eyes  of  the 
dead. 

In  the  room  of  the  prison  superintendent  there  was 
a  light.  There  two  men  sat  opposite  each  other  at  a 
table  upon  which  a  piece  of  papefr  was  outspread. 
They  were  the  superintendent  and  his  helper.  They 
pointed  with  pencils  to  names  of  prisoners  who  in  the 
morning  would  be  brought  out  to  be  sentenced. 

Klp-r-r!    Kli-rr-rr — 

'There  it  is  again!"  said  the  superintendent, 
throwing  down  his  pencil. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  inquired  his  companion. 

"A  new  prisoner.  With  those  confounded  chains 
he  disturbs  me  day  and  night." 

"Why  does  he  make  such  a  noise?" 

"Why?  How  should  I  know?  All  the  time  that 
dog  of  a  giaour  walks  about  and  gives  me  no  rest. 
The  devil  take  a  business  like  mine !  In  all  the  years 
I  have  been  here  I  have  never  got  used  to  it — ^that 
accursed  sound." 

S3 


54  FAMOUS  STORIES 

Kli^-rl    Kli-rr-rr--- 

This  time  the  noise  was  louder. 

"I  can't  stand  that!"  roared  the  superintendent. 
"I  can't  stand  that  sound  any  longer.  Last  night  I 
never  closed  an  eye  because  of  it." 

The  helper  began  to  laugh. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?" 

"Why  do  I  laugh?  A  boiled  hen  would  laugh  if 
you  should  say  to  it  that  the  wolf  is  afraid  of  the  sheep. 
What's  the  use  of  your  anger  and  discomfort? 
Silence  him." 

"Silence  him!     Easy  enough  to  say." 

"Tell  him  to  go  to  sleep." 

"But  what  if  he  doesn/t  sleep?" 

"Make  him  sleep!  There's  a  way,  isn't  there?" 
pointing  to  the  rows  of  knouts  along  the  wall.  The 
light  of  cruel  impulses  shone  in  his  little  eyes. 

Kli-r-r!  Kli-rr-rr —  Again  the  shuddering  rattle 
of  rusty  iron.  The  superintendent  began  to  meditate. 
He  bit  his  lips  angrily  and  left  the  room.  He  turned 
toward  the  cell  from  which  the  sound  came,  opened 
the  circular  window  and  roared. 

"You  dog  of  a  giaour,  stop  rattling  those  chains! 
Keep  stilir 

"I'm  not  doing  anything,"  came  a  voice  from  within. 
"Why  do  you  make  such  a  noise  all  the  time?" 
"Why?    The    chains — they    knock    against    each 
other." 
"Then  why  do  you  move?" 
"What  shall  I  do?" 


IN  PRISON  ss 

"Sleep!  Sleep!  If  you  don't,  I'll—"  The  super- 
intendent did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"Sleep — that's  easy  to  say,"  thought  the  prisoner. 
"How  can  the  defender  of  man's  freedom  sleep — if 
he  is  buried  alive  and  has  no  hope?" 

The  mind  of  the  haiduk  was  a  volcano ;  the  cell  was 
narrow,  the  chains  heavy.  The  rattle  of  chains  was 
the  hideous  song  of  autocracy,  which  since  the 
beginning  of  time  has  echoed  from  prison  walls. 

The  superintendent  went  away.  The  prisoner  stood 
still  for  a  moment,  pondered  the  words,  then  began 
to  move  about  again.  He  tried  to  walk  softly  along 
the  wall,  carefully,  little  step  by  little  step.  And  the 
chains  rang  and  rang  disturbing  the  night. 

"How  long  has  the  good-for-nothing  been  here?" 
inquired  the  helper. 

"Three  days  ago  they  caught  him  in  Toprag-Gale. 
He  must  be  a  bad  lot  who  can  not  sleep.  No  one 
knows  who  he  is  nor  whence  he  came." 

"Will  he  ascend— it?" 

"What?  You  mean  the  gallows?  Of  course — if 
they  sentence  him!" 

They  were  silent.  It  was  not  a  suitable  subject  for 
conversation.  Therefore  they  thought  about  it  a  good 
deal  and  said  nothing.  The  silence  was  broken  by  a 
sudden  crash  of  the  chains. 

"Just  wait  till  daylight,  you  dog  of  a  giaour!" 
murmured  the  superintendent.     "Wait!" 

The  helper  got  up,  said  good  night  and  went  out. 

Daylight  came  and  the  hour  when  the  prisoners  are 
given  their  breakfast. 


56  FAMOUS  STORIES 

"Now  you'll  keep  still  forever,  Giaour,"  murmured 
the  superintendent,  who,  with  a  dish  full  of  food 
approached  the  cell  of  his  noisy  prisoner.  He  opened 
the  door  and  placed  the  food  upon  the  floor.  The 
prisoner  was  sleeping.  He  went  out  stealthily.  He 
closed  the  door  but  did  not  go  away.  Something  held 
him  to  the  spot.  He  put  his  eye  to  the  keyhole  and 
looked  in.  The  prisoner  was  handsome.  He  had  an 
air  of  nobility.  His  broad  brow  was  unclouded  as 
if  noble  thoughts  moved  behind  it.  The  face  indicated 
strength  of  character.  There  was  something  about 
the  sleeping  figure  that  affected  the  superintendent 
peculiarly.  Fear  awoke  in  his  heart.  He  tried  to 
suppress  this  feeling  which  was  new  to  him.  Why 
did  he  stand  there  and  watch  him?  Why  did  he  not 
go  away?  He  did  not  know  and  he  did  not  like  to 
think  about  it.     He  tried  to  reason  with  himself. 

He  saw  the  prisoner  get  up  and  approach  the  food. 
He  followed  every  movement.  His  knees  began  to 
tremble.  He  leaned  heavily  against  the  door.  He 
wanted  to  turn  away  but  he  could  not.  His  throat 
began  to  feel  dry.  Why  should  he  destroy  that  noble 
looking  figure  with  the  broad  brow  and  inspired  eyes  ? 
He  opened  the  door  and  called : 

'Wait!     Waitr 

The  prisoner  looked  up  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Wait!  I  can't  do  it.  Rattle  your  chains  all  you 
want  to." 

He  picked  up  the  plate,  ran  from  the  room  and 
closed  the  door.  The  prisoner  understood.  A  smile 
passed  across  his  lips  like  the  last,  faint  glimmer  of 


IN  PRISON  57 

sunset.     He  rejoiced.     Under  the  low  roof  of  prison, 
behind  locked  doors,  he  had  conquered. 

Chapter  II. 

Weeks  passed. 

Kli-r-r!  Kli-rr-rr —  This  time  the  chains  were 
clanging  through  the  village  of  A — .  Between  rows 
of  glittering  bayonets  appeared  from  time  to  time, 
a  white  face.  The  prisoners  were  being  led  to  the 
place  of  execution.  Even  in  daylight  this  clanging  of 
chains  was  terrifying.  Doors  were  quickly  shut, 
windows  closed.  This  sound  was  the  terror  of  the 
land.  It  filled  the  streets,  and  made  the  hearts  of  the 
brave  tremble.  A  crowd  had  accumulated  about  the 
square.  There  were  judges,  lawyers,  court  accoun- 
tants. The  superintendent  was  there  too,  and  his 
helper. 

"I  did  not  do  it.  I  am  not  to  be  blamed,"  the 
superintendent  kept  whispering  to  hirhself.  The 
judge  turned  to  the  prisoner. 

"You  are  A —  from  the  village  of  A — ?" 

"No ;  I  am  not  from  A — ." 

"K —  is  your  friend?"  k 

"I  do  not  know  him."  ^   . 

"Did  you  kill  G— ?" 

"Yes ;  he  was  my  enemy." 

"You  procured  weapons  and  took  them  to  S — ?" 

"No ;  I  did  not  procure  the  weapons." 

The  helper  of  the  superintendent,  who  until  then 
had  listened  indifferently,  went  up  to  the  judge  and 


58  FAMOUS  STORIES 

whispered  to  him.  Then,  upon  a  signal  from  the 
judge  he  walked  up  to  the  prisoner  and  stood  directly 
in  front  of  him,  and  quite  near. 

The  place  of  execution  became  silent.  Every  one 
expected  something  unusual  and  all  eyes  were  turned 
toward  the  two  men  who  stood  face  to  face.  It  was 
not  two  faces  that  confronted  each  other,  but  four 
eyes  .  .  .  four  flames.  The  spectators  shivered  as 
if  from  fear.  Something  was  going  to  happen,  some- 
thing out  of  the  ordinary.  Still  they  stared  at  each 
other,  eye  against  eye.  Their  eyes  did  not  wink. 
Their  lips  did  not  move.  Their  eyebrows  did  not 
twitch.  No  sound  escaped  their  lips.  No  word  was 
spoken.  They  only  looked  and  looked,  and  one  was 
in  chains,  but  inspirited  with  righteous  wrath.  The 
other  wore  the  uniform  of  a  Turkish  official,  and  yet 
he  trembled  and  seemed  afraid. 

The  prisoner  stepped  back.  The  chains  rattled. 
He  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of  scorn  that  made  the 
other  feel  shivers  pass  down  his  spine,  and  he  stut- 
tered. 

"I — I — know  you.    You  are  A — '' 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other.    ''You  were  my  friend." 

Friend!  What  a  word  to  use  Here!  THc  word 
took  on  form  and  towered  like  a  giant  in  front  of  the 
helper.  He  saw  himself  in  all  his  baseness.  He  was 
in  terror  at  his  own  likeness.  Ah ! — ^how  much  blood 
he  had  shed  for  these  shining  buttons  on  his  uniform. 
Involuntarily  he  touched  one  of  the  buttons.  It  was 
cold  like  ice.  He  drew  his  hand  back  quickly.  How 
many  years  had  he  feigned  to  be  a  friend  to  this  hero 


IN  PRISON  59 

who  fought  for  freedom,  and  how  many '  just  Klce  him 
he  had  tricked  and  brought  to  ruin.  He  touched  his 
sword,  then  drew  his  hand  back,  and  glanced  at  the 
heavy  chains  of  his  old  friend  and  former  companion 
in  the  strife  for  liberty.  Which  was  better,  the  sword 
of  the  Turkish  official  or  those  rusty  chains  of  the 
martyr  for  freedom?  This  question  which  he  thought 
he  had  decided  long  ago,  came  up  again. 

It  is  night — a  gloomy  night.  A  restless  wind 
roamed  imder  the  black  sky.  The  helper  started  for 
the  prison.  The  superintendent  had  called  him.  His 
walk  did  not  have  its  usual  animation.  The  darkness 
was  not  pleasant,  nor  the  wind  either.  He  kept 
thinking  of  things  he  did  not  wish  to  think  of.  How 
hard  he  had  tried  to  hide  himself  that  morning  when 
A—  climbed  to  the  gallows.  He  did  not  succeed. 
The  prisoner  seemed  to  search  for  him.  He  found 
him.  He  looked  at  him  again  just  as  he  had  looked 
at  him  on  the  place  of  execution.  Before  he  died  he 
wished  to  bum  that  look  of  scorn  and  contempt  into 
his  brain.  There — ^before  him  in  the  dark — ^were  two 
burning  points — eyes.  He  could  not  go  on.  He 
stopped.  They  were  the  eyes  of  his  friend.  They 
were  just  like  them — ^just  so  large.  Should  he  go  on? 
He  meditated  a  moment  and  closed  his  eyes.  When 
he  opened  them  again,  the  two  eyes  were  still  looking 
at  him  again — only  they  were  larger  and  there  was  a 
different  expression  within  them.  He  started  to  run. 
The  eyes  disappeared.    It  was  a  cat  which  leaped 


6o  FAMOUS  STORIES 

ahead  of  him.    He  laughed  at  his  fear,  but  he  walked 
faster  than  usual. 

At  length  he  reached  the  prison  yard.  He  looked 
timidly  toward  the  place  of  execution  of  the  morning. 
He  thought  the  man  was  buried  and  all  was  over.  But 
he  saw  the  body  gleaming  through  the  darkness.  And 
when  the  wind  touched  it,  the  gallows  moaned  and 
moaned.  And  the  wind  carried  the  sound  on  and  on. 
The  helper  ran  without  looking  up,  but  as  he  neared 
the  gallows  his  steps  were  heavier  and  heavier.  The 
old  shuddering  swept  over  his  body.  At  last,  trem- 
bling, he  entered  the  room  of  the  overseer.  It  was 
light  there.  At  least  there  was  a  human  being  there. 
The  superintendent  did  not  look  up ;  he  was  thoughtful 
and  both  were  silent. 

"Now  you  can  sleep/*  remarked  the  helper  in  order 
to  break  the  oppressive  silence.  "Now  the  chains  do 
not  rattle." 

"Hark!  Don't  you  hear  that?"  Outside,  above  the 
sound  of  the  wind,  came  plainly  the  creaking  of  the 
gallows.  It  was  a  sad,  monotonous  sound,  a  gigantic 
slumber  song  over  the  body  of  the  heroic  dead. 

"Why  is  he  not  buried?" 

"That  is  what  I  have  called  you  for.  To-morrow 
morning  you  are  to  take  him  down  and  bury  him — 
because  you  were  his  friend." 

The  helper  was  silent.  What  an  ironic  play  of  wit 
was  this.  Anyway  he  will  not  make  any  noise, 
thought  the  helper. 

The  superintendent  dropped  his  head ;  his  eyes  were 
in  the  shadow.     Slowly  the  helper  got  upon  his  feet, 


IN  PRISON  6i 

took  up  the  lamp  and  held  it  in  front  of  the  trembling 
face  of  the  overseer.  The  overseer  threw  back  his 
head  in  anger,  grabbed  the  lamp  from  the  hand  of  the 
helper,  threw  it  upon  the  floor  and  smashed  it  into 
pieces. 

*'You  cowardly  betrayer — he  was  your  friend  T 

The  room  was  in  darkness.  In  every  corner  shone 
a  dozen  gleaming  eyes  that  kept  growing  larger  and 
larger.  It  was  frightful ;  he  wished  to  get  away.  But 
he  could  not  find  the  door.  He  circled  vainly  around 
and  around.  At  last  he  stumbled  upon  it.  Carefully 
he  opened  it  and  stuck  his  head  out.  It  was  no  less 
terrifying  outside;  blackness  and  wind,  and  the 
creaking  gallows.  Ah!^ — what  a  sound  was  that!  It 
penetrated  the  marrow  of  his  bones  and  made  him 
suffer.  Up  there  the  dead  man  was  shaking  in  the 
wind.  Where  should  he  go?  He  made  up  his  mind 
to  run  as  fast  as  he  could,  but  he  had  only  taken  a  few 
steps  when  something  forced  him  to  look  up.  There 
in  front  of  him,  in  the  darkness,  were  two  gleaming, 
swollen  eyes,  streaked  with  blood.  His  knees  gave 
way.  Trembling  he  turned  back  toward  the  door  of 
the  overseer. 

"Cowardly  betrayer!'*  murmured  the  overseer  again. 
The  helper  turned  and  ran  again.  But  this  time  the 
wind  blocked  his  way  and  he  found  himself  beneath 
the  gallows.  This  time  the  dead  man  did  not  seem 
to  be  angry.  The  eyes  looked  down  at  him  sympathe- 
tically and  the  lips  said :  "Friend,  Friend.*' 

He  twisted  and  crawled  along  like  a  snake.  Then 
with  feverish  haste  he  put  up  the  ladder,  climbed  it, 


62  FAMOUS  STORIES 

and  untied  the  rope.  The  corpse  fell.  Quickly  he 
twisted  the  same  noose  about  his  own  neck  and  swung 
himself  up  into  the  air.  With  the  angry  voice  of  the 
wind  there  mingled  the  peculiar  choking  sound  of  a 
human  voice — and  then  the  sound  came  no  more. 
The  two  dead  men  looked  at  each  other,  one  upon  the 
ground,  and  the  other  swinging  high  in  the  darkness 
and  the  wind, 


THE  ELOPEMENT 
By  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 


PETOFI 

Alexander  Petofi,  the  great  lyric  poet  of  the  Magyar 
race,  was  born  the  first  day  of  January,  1823.  His 
was  a  true  poet*s  Hf  e — brief  and  stormy.  Only  twenty- 
six  years  were  his  in  which  to  live  and  purchase  fame. 
Despite  the  fact  that  he  took  an  active  part  in  the  wars 
which  were  numerous  during  his  brief  day,  and  was 
active  as  an  editor  and  politician,  he  found  time  to 
write  some  of  the  finest  lyric  verse  of  his  race,  and 
tales  in  prose,  and  to  leave  a  considerable  correspon- 
dance  with  the  distinguished  men  of  the  period. 

His  best  prose  work  is  the  novelette,  The  Hang- 
man's Knot 


THE   ELOPEMENT 

"But  where  shall  we  go?" 

"To  Buda  Pesth/' 

"To  Pesth?'' 

"Of  courser 

"Why  there?" 

"It's  the  safest  place." 

"Very  well." 

"Early—" 

"ril  be  ready— early." 

"Use  every  precaution." 

"Do  not  worry." 

"On  no  account  be  late." 

"No ;  of  course  not !" 

"Good  by,  Anna  dear— !" 

Poor  Andrew  von  Csornay!  And  at  this  moment 
in  the  club  he  is  saying  "Checkmate,"  with  an  air  of 
triumph  to  his  opponent,  just  as  if  he  himself  had 
not  just  been  checkmated  in  life,  for  Anna  is  his  wife, 
and  Carl  his  nephew. 

A  few  days  later  they  talked  of  nothing  in  the  little 
village  where  this  happened,  but  the  elopement  of 
Madame  Andrew  with  her  nephew,  Carl  von  Csornay. 

"It  served  the  old  fool  right!  Why  did  he  marry 
such  a  young  and  beautiful  girl?" 

65 


66  FAMOUS  STORIES 

"That's  too  much  for  mef  I  can't  solve  the  prob- 
lem. Probably  because  they  were  so  much  in  love 
with  each  other." 

"True — I  suppose." 

"But  Fm  sorry  for  the  old  man.  I  shouldn't  be  a 
bit  surprised  if  the  grief  killed  him." 

"Poor  fellow!" 

"And  the  unfortunate  scandal — " 

During  the  time  conversation  like  this  was  common 
in  the  little  village,  Carl  and  his  beautiful  young  aunt, 
had  met  in  Pesth.  While  their  carriage  was  on  the 
way  to  the  hotel,  another  carriage  started  from  there. 

"Oh !"  screamed  Madame  Anna,  in  terror. 

"I  hope  he'll  lose  his  eyesight,"  thought  Carl  von 
Csomay  to  himself,  throwing  a  hasty  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  other  carriage.  They  both  wrapped 
themselves  up  in  their  cloaks  as  well  as  they  could. 
The  man  who  saw  them  was  a  merchant  from  their 
home  town. 

"He  did  not  recognize  us,"  declared  Carl  reassur- 
ingly, when  they  entered  their  room  in  the  hotel.  "If 
he  had,  he  would  have  spoken  to  us." 

"Thank  heaven  for  that!" 

"Now  you  belong  to  me,  Anna, — wholly — ^wholly! 
To  me  belong  the  beautiful  brown  hair,  the  red,  sweet 
lips,  the  glowing,  black  eyes,  the  proud,  swan-like 
neck—" 

"Yes — ^yes — I  belong  to  you  Carl  !'* 

And  they  were  happy — for  a  little  while.  But  the 
love  of  the  senses  is  an  intoxication  from  which  one 


THE  ELOPEMENT  67 

awakens  and  when  they  awoke  and  came  to  their 
senses,  they  both  exclaimed: 

"In  the  name  of  goodness  what  are  we  going  to  live 
upon?  We  have  no  money!  We  have  nothing  to 
eat." 

They  had  not  finished  speaking,  when  some  one 
knocked  at  the  door  and  a  stranger  entered. 

"Have  I  the  honor  to  address  M.  Carl  von  Csomay?" 

Carl  listened  confused  and  frightened,  because  he 
felt  that  they  had  been  discovered. 

"You  do  not  answer,"  continued  the  stranger,  "but 
your  surprise  proves  that  you  are  the  one  I  seek.  I 
beg  you  to  sign  this  little  piece  of  paper.  Exactly 
one  year  from  to-day  I  will  come  to  see  you  again. 
Do  not  forget — in  just  one  year.    Good  by." 

The  mysterious  stranger  went  away.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  say  which  was  greater,  the  surprise  or  the  joy 
of  the  lovers.  The  paper  which  the  stranger  gave  him, 
was  draft  for  a  sum  of  money  sufficiently  large  to 
enable  them  to  live  in  luxury  for  a  year.  According 
to  the  written  demand  of  the  stranger,  the  money  was 
paid  to  them  promptly. 

"It  is  incomprehensible,"  declared  Madame  Anna, 
looking  at  the  money. 

"I  should  say  it  is  incomprehensible,"  agreed  Carl. 
"Gold  falls  upon  us  just  like  manna  from  Heaven." 

Now  they  could  live  happily.  They  had  no  material 
cares  to  worry  about.  And  they  thought  now  of 
course  that  the  merchant  did  not  recognize  them.  If 
he  had,  would  he  not  have  told  M.  Andrew  von 
Csomay? 


68  FAMOUS  STORIES 

"And  at  the  end  of  the  year,"  explained  Carl,  "the 
stranger  will  come  again,  and  we  shall  have  more 
money.     Is  not  that  what  he  said?" 

"Yes,  indeed." 

Six  months  after  the  departure  of  Madame  Anna 
with  her  nephew,  a  young  man  appeared  suddenly  in 
the  home  of  old  M.  Andrew  von  Csornay.  His  face 
expressed  suffering  and  a  decision  reached  in  a  mood 
of  despair. 

Old  M.  Andrew  had  just  returned  from  his  club,  in 
a  rather  melancholy  frame  of  mind.  He  was  either 
sad  over  the  disappearance  of  his  young  wife,  or 
because  the  priest  had  beaten  him  again  at  chess. 

When  the  young  man  entered,  the  old  man,  white 
and  trembling,  sank  back  in  his  chair.  The  young  man 
seized  his  hand  and  implored: 

"Uncle — Dear  Uncle — what  shall  I  do  to  be  for- 
given ?     I  am  ready  to  do  anything !" 

"Where  is  she — the  woman?" 

"She — she is  not  here." 

The  old  man  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  whole  story,"  declared 
Carl.  "You  will  see  then  that  you  ought  to  pity  me, 
and  not  take  revenge  upon  me.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
I  have  suffered.  My  happiness  did  not  last  long.  I 
lived  in  a  veritable  hell.  Your  wife  has  the  face  of 
an  angel — but  all  the  devils  there  are,  dwell  in  her 
heart.  She  is  the  worst  tempered  woman  I  have  ever 
known  in  my  life.  I  could  not  stand  it  a  day  longer — 
I  had  to  run  away  and  leave  her — " 

*'My  poor  nephew — I  do  pity  you  from  the  bottom 


THE  ELOPEMENT  69 

of  my  heart.  But  you  ought  to  pity  me;  she  only 
remained  with  you  six  months,  while  she  remained  an 
entire  year  with  me." 

"You,  too,  Dear  Uncle?" 

"You  are  surprised,  I  suppose,  are  you  not?  Every 
one  thought  we  were  happy.  But  you  should  have 
seen  us  when  we  were  alone !  Then — ^you  would  have 
learned  a  thing  or  two.  When  I  think  of  her  it  makes 
me  shudder.  When  I  found  you  had  eloped  with  her, 
I  blessed  you.  No  one  could  have  done  me  a  greater 
kindness.  In  order  to  reward  you — as  soon  as  the 
merchant  told  me  where  you  were — I  sent  you  a  yearly 
allowance, — so  you  would  have  no  inclination  to  come 
back,  and  no  hinderance  where  money  was 
concerned—" 


SAIDJAH 
By  MULTATUU 


MULTATULI 

MuLTATULi,  whose  real  name  was  Edward  D.  Dekker, 
was  born  in  Amsterdam  in  1820.  His  father  was  a 
merchant.  When  he  was  eighteen  years  old  his  father 
sent  him  to  the  Dutch  East  Indies  to  enter  the  service 
of  the  colonial  government.  He  was  rapidly  advanced 
to  the  highest  government  position  in  the  colonies. 
And  in  this  position  he  was  tireless  in  his  endeavor 
to  improve  the  condition  of  the  native  population. 

Because  of  this  desire  he  gave  up  at  length  his 
position,  with  all  its  advantages  of  money  and  honor, 
and  went  back  to  Holland  to  tell  the  people  the  true 
condition  of  the  native  population  over  whom  they 
ruled.  He  was  dismissed  from  service  without  a 
pension,  and  for  years  after  this  he  lived  in  poverty. 
It  was  during  this  period  of  deprivation  that  he  wrote 
the  novel,  Havelaar,  He  tells  us  that  he  was  obliged 
to  borrow  money  to  buy  the  ink  with  which  to  write  it. 

Other  books  followed  this  in  quick  succession, 
among  them  the  drama,  A  School  for  Princes, 
which  is  still  popular  in  Holland. 

In  1870  he  went  to  live  in  Wiesbaden;  from  Wies- 
baden he  moved  to  a  village  on  the  Rhine  where  he 
died  in  February,  1887, 


SAIDJAH 

Saidjah  was  about  fifteen  years  old  when  his  father 
ran  away  to  Buitenzorg.  He  did  not  accompany  him 
because  he  had  plans  of  his  own  to  carry  out.  He 
had  heard  that  in  Batavia  there  were  rich  gentlemen 
who  would  employ  slender  youths  like  him,  if  they 
v/ere  nimble  footed,  to  sit  on  the  rear  seat  of  the  two 
wheeled  carriages.  He  had  been  told  that  he  could 
earn  money  in  this  way.  In  two  years  he  could  earn 
enough  money  to  buy  two  water  buffaloes.  This  pros- 
pect pleased  him.  He  walked  along  proudly  like  a  per- 
son who  carries  something  important  in  his  head.  He 
was  on  his  way  to  see  Adinda  to  tell  her  his  plan. 

"When  I  come  back,"  he  explained,  "we  shall  be  old 
enough  to  marry — and  then  we  shall  have  two  buffa- 
loes to  do  the  plowing." 

"Good,  Saidjah,  I  will  be  your  wife  when  you  come 
back.  I  will  spin.  I  will  weave  and  embroider 
sarongs." 

"I  believe  you,  Adinda.  And  when  I  come  back, 
I  will  call  you  a  long  way  off — " 

"Who  could  hear  if  we  happened  to  be  pounding  rice 
in  the  village?" 

"That  is  true.  Then  wait  for  me  by  the  Djati 
73 


74  FAMOUS  STORIES 

Forest,  under  the  ketapan  tree,  where  you  gave  me  the 
melatti  flower." 

"But,  Saidjah,  when  can  I  know  when  you  are 
coming?     When  shall  I  go  to  the  tree?" 

Saidjah  thought  a  moment  and  replied. 

''Count  the  moons.  During  three  times  twelve 
moons  I  will  remain  away.  But  this  moon  now  does 
not  count.  See,  Adinda, — cut  a  notch  in  the  riceblock 
for  each  moon.  When  you  have  cut  three  times 
twelve  notches,  I  will  return.  On  that  day  wait  for 
me  under  the  ketapan  tree." 

"I  will  be  there  by  the  Djati  Forest,  waiting  for  you 
under  the  ketapan  tree." 

Saidjah  tore  a  piece  of  cloth  from  his  blue  head- 
dress, and  gave  it  to  Adinda.  Then  he  said  good  by 
to  her  and  to  Badur.  He  went  through  Rangas- 
Betung,  which  was  not  yet  a  place  of  importance,  and 
en  to  Warong-Gunang,  where  the  assistant  governor 
lived.  The  next  day  he  saw  Pandeglang,  the  village 
that  looks  as  if  it  lay  in  a  garden.  A  day  later  he 
reached  Serang,  and  stood  astonished  at  the  splendor 
and  the  number  of  the  houses.  He  remained  here  one 
day  because  he  was  tired,  but  when  the  sun  set,  he 
went  on  again  and  at  length  reached  Tangerang. 
Here  he  took  a  bath  in  the  river  and  rested  in  the  house 
of  a  friend  of  his  father. 

As  soon  as  it  was  dark  he  took  out  the  melatti  flower 
which  Adinda  gave  him  and  looked  at  it.  Then  he 
v/as  sad  because  he  had  not  seen  her  for  so  long.  The 
farther  he  traveled  from  Badur,  the  more  he  began 
to  think  that  the  thirty  six  moons  represented  a  very 


SAIDJAH  ,  75 

long  time.     It  was  not  so  easy  for  him  to  go  ahead. 
He  felt  weary  and  without  ambition. 

Saidjah  arrived  in  Batavia.  He  sought  a  rich  gen- 
tleman who  hired  him  at  once,  when  he  found  he 
could  not  understand  what  he  said.  In  Batavia  they 
prefer  servants  who  do  not  understand  Malay,  and 
are  not  spoiled  by  contact  with  Europeans.  Saidjah 
soon  learned  Malay,  but  he  kept  it  to  himself,  because 
he  thought  only  of  Adinda  and  the  two  buffaloes.  He 
grew  tall  and  strong  because  he  had  something  to  eat 
every  day,  which  did  not  happen  in  Badur.  His  mas- 
ter promoted  him  to  the  position  of  a  house  servant 
and  increased  his  pay.  But  at  the  end  of  three  years 
they  said  he  was  ungrateful,  because  he  gave  up  his 
position.  But  he  did  not  care  what  they  said,  his  heart 
v/as  glad  because  he  was  getting  ready  to  go  back. 
He  counted  over  and  over  the  treasures  which  he  was 
going  to  carry  home.  In  a  hollow,  bamboo  stick  he 
l»ad  his  passport  and  the  testimonial  of  his  master. 
In  a  case  swung  over  his  shoulder  by  a  piece  of  leather, 
was  something  heavy  that  beat  against  his  back. 
Within  this  case  were  thirty  Spanish  dollars,  with 
which  he  intended  to  buy  three  buffaloes.  What 
would  Adinda  say  to  that!  And  that  was  not  all. 
In  his  girdle  shone  a  Malay  kris  with  a  sheathe  of 
silver.  The  handle  was  of  carved  wood  which  he  had 
wrapped  carefully  in  silk.  In  the  folds  of  his  outer 
garment  was  a  leathern  girdle  with  silver  links,  and  a 
clasp  of  gold.  This  was  for  Adinda.  Around  his 
neck  in  a  little  silk  purre,  he  carried  the  dried  melatti 
flower. 


76  FAMOUS  STORIES 

He  did  not  pause  to  visit  any  of  the  cities  along  his 
route.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  hear  the  voice 
of  Adinda  calling  him.  This  music  made  him  deaf 
to  everything  else. 

At  length,  in  the  distance,  he  saw  a  great  black  spot. 
That  must  be  the  Djati  Forest,  which  was  near  the 
tree  where  Adinda  was  going  to  wait  for  him.  He 
groped  in  the  darkness  and  felt  the  trunks  of  many 
trees.  Soon  he  stumbled  upon  a  piece  of  level  ground 
that  seemed  familiar — the  south  side  of  a  tree.  He 
put  his  fingers  in  a  gash  in  the  side  of  the  tree  which 
he  remembered  had  been  cut  to  drive  away  an  evil 
spirit  that  had  hidden  there  and  given  some  people 
cf  the  village  toothache. 

This  was  the  ketapan  tree  which  he  was  seeking. 
He  sat  down  in  front  of  the  tree  and  looked  up  at  the 
stars.  And  when  he  saw  a  falling  star  he  understood 
it  as  a  greeting  to  him  on  his  return  to  Badur.  Then 
he  wondered  if  Adinda  were  sleeping  now,  and  if  she 
had  counted  the  moons  correctly  on  the  old  rice-block. 
Would  it  not  be  a  pity  if  she  had  cut  one  too  many,  or 
one  too  few  ?  Thirty  six  moons  there  should  be !  He 
wondered  if  she  had  woven  beautiful  sarongs.  And 
he  wondered  too  who  was  living  in  the  old  home  of 
his  father.  Then  he  recalled  his  youth,  and  his 
mother,  and  the  buffalo  that  had  saved  him  from  being 
torn  to  pieces  by  the  tiger. 

Very  carefully  he  watched  the  setting  of  the  stars 
in  the  west,  as  they  disappeared  along  the  horizon  line, 
and  estimated  the  time  before  light  would  begin  to 
come  from  the  East,  and  how  much  time  would  elapse 


SAIDJAH  yy 

before  he  met  Adinda.  She,  of  course,  would  come 
with  the  very  first  ray  of  Hght.  Why  in  the  world 
could  she  not  have  come  the  day  before?  He  was 
sad  that  she  had  not  got  ahead  of  this  beautiful  hour, 
which  had  fed  his  soul  with  delight  for  three  long 
years. 

His  complaints  were  foolish.  The  sun  had  not  yet 
risen.  Not  yet  had  the  sun  sent  its  long  rays  across 
the  levels.  To  be  sure,  over  his  head,  the  stars  were 
now  growing  paler,  one  by  one,  as  if  ashamed  that 
their  domination  must  end  so  soon.  Strange,  wild  colors 
fluttered  over  the  lonely  mountain  tops,  which  seemed 
blacker  afterward.  Something  that  shone,  floated  now 
and  then,  across  the  clouds  banked  in  the  east ;  arrows 
of  gold — flame — ^but  they  fell  back  again  into  the 
darkness  that  hid  the  day  from  the  eyes  of  Saidjah. 

Gradually  it  became  lighter.  He  could  see  the 
landscape.  He  could  hear  sound  of  the  leaves  from 
the  Klappa  forest  behind  Badur. 

And  yet  how  could  she  sleep?  Did  she  not  know 
that  Saidjah  was  waiting  for  her?  Probably  the 
village  watchman  had  just  knocked  at  her  door,  and 
asked  her  why  the  night  lamp  was  burning.  Or  per- 
haps she  sat  all  night  in  the  darkness  on  her  rice-block, 
counting  with  her  fingers  the  thirty  six  marks  for  the 
moons.  Perhaps  like  him  she  was  waiting  for  the 
rising  of  the  sun. 

He  did  not  wish  to  go  to  Badur.  He  seated  himself 
at  the  foot  of  the  ketapan  tree,  and  looked  out  over 
the  levels.  Nature  smiled  back  at  him  and  welcomed 
him.     But  his  eyes  kept  turning  toward  the  narrow 


78  FAMOUS  STORIES 

path  that  led  from  Badur  to  the  ketapan  tree,  along 
which  Adinda  would  come.  But  there  was  no  one 
to  be  seen  upon  the  path.  He  waited  a  long  time,  and 
looked  and  looked,  and  still  there  was  no  one  upon  the 
path.  She  probably  watched  all  night  and  then  fell 
asleep  at  dawn,  he  thought  to  console  himself.  Should 
he  get  up  and  go  to  Badur?  She  might  be  ill —  or 
dead. 

He  got  up  and  ran  along  the  path  to  the  village. 
He  heard  nothing.  He  saw  nothing.  Yet  voices 
called  and  called — "Saidjah!  Saidjah!"  The  women 
of  Badur  came  out  of  their  houses  and  looked  at  him. 
Their  faces  were  sad.  They  recognized  Saidjah  and 
knew  he  had  come  to  see  Adinda,  and  that  she  was 
not  there.  The  head  of  the  district  of  Parang- 
Kudjang  had  taken  away  the  buffaloes  of  Adinda's 
father.  Her  mother  died  of  grief.  Adinda's  father 
feared  punishment  because  he  could  not  pay  the  land- 
rent,  and  he  had  fled.  He  took  Adinda  with  him. 
But  because  Saidjah's  father  had  been  whipped  in 
Buitenzorg  for  running  away,  he  did  not  dare  go  there, 
but  to  the  district  of  Lebak,  which  borders  the  sea. 
There  they  had  taken  ship.  But  Saidjah  was  so 
grieved  he  did  not  understand  what  they  said  to  him. 

He  left  Badur  and  went  to  Tjilang  Kahan  where  he 
bought  a  boat.  After  a  few  days  sail  he  reached  the 
Campong  coast,  where  there  was  an  uprising  against 
the  rule  of  the  Dutch.  He  joined  a  troop  of  soldiers 
less  to  fight  than  to  search  for  Adinda.  One  day 
when  there  was  a  general  massacre  of  natives  who 
had  been  subdued  by  the  army  of  the  Netherlands,  he 


k 


SAIDJAH  79 


wandered  through  a  little  village  that  had  been  set 
on  fire.  As  he  was  walking  around  some  houses 
that  had  not  been  yet  completely  burned,  he  came 
upon  the  dead  body  of  Adinda's  father.  There 
was  a  bayonet  wound  in  his  breast.  A  short 
distance  away  lay  Adinda,  naked  and  dead.  A 
little  rag  of  blue  cloth  was  pressed  in  the  bayonet 
wound  in  her  breast.  Said j  ah  met  a  soldier  who 
was  using  his  bayonet  to  drive  the  few  surviving 
insurgents  into  the  burning  houses.  With  all  his 
strength  he  rushed  forward,  and  drove  the  soldier 
back,  while  the  point  of  the  bayonet  pierced  his 
lungs. 

In  Batavia  there  was  rejoicing  over  the  victory  that 
had  brought  fresh  laurels  to  Dutch  arms  in  the  East 
Indies.  The  Governor  wrote  to  the  home  country 
that  there  was  peace  again  in  Campong.  The  soldiers 
were  rewarded  with  crosses  of  heroes.  In  the 
churches  prayers  of  thanksgiving  were  said  because 
the  Lord  of  Hosts  had  again  fought  upon  the  side  of 
the  Dutch. 


ABISAG 
By  JAROSLAV  VRCHUCKY 


VRCHLICKY 

Jaroslav  Vrchlicky,  whose  real  name  is  Emil  Frida, 
is  a  significant  personality  in  modern  Bohemian  litera- 
ture. 

He  was  born  m  1853.  He  studied  at  various 
secondary  schools  and  later  attended  the  University 
of  Prague.  Here  he  devoted  himself  almost  exclu- 
sively to  theology  and  philosophy,  and  then — thanks  to 
the  generosity  of  Count  Montecuccoli-Laderchi — 
traveled  for  a  time  in  Italy. 

In  1893  he  was  made  Professor  of  Modern  Lit- 
erature in  the  University  of  Prague,  of  which  he 
became  one  of  the  most  distinguished  figures. 

His  fertility  as  a  writer  is  so  unusual  that  it  can  not 
be  passed  over  in  silence.  He  has  published  many 
books  of  lyric  verse,  dramatic  verse,  stories  in  prose, 
and  translations  from  many  languages,  including  the 
work  of  English  and  American  writers.  He  has  given 
his  countrymen  versions  of  Schiller,  Dante,  Ariosto, 
Victor  Hugo,  Leopardi,  and  Provengal  and  Spanish 
poets. 

The  story  Abisag,  which  we  give,  is  from  the 
collection  of  prose  tales  entitled  Bits  of  Colored 
Glass,     Vrchlicky  died  in  1912. 


ABISAG 

King  David  lay  upon  a  royal  couch  of  cypress  wood. 
From  the  ceiling  swung  huge  receptacles  carved  of 
bronze,  from  which  the  smoke  of  burning  perfumes 
rose,  and  whose  dim,  wavering  light,  showed  carven 
cedam  walls  and  a  ceiling  starred  with  plaques  of  gold. 

The  night  was  warm  and  windless.  From  the  city 
from  time  to  time  one  could  hear  the  measured  tread 
of  watchmen,  and  the  clang  of  swords ;  from  the  vine- 
yards that  swept  about  Jerusalem  like  a  girdle  of  green, 
came  the  voices  of  men  who  guarded  the  wine.  The 
moon,  resembling  a  warrior's  shield  of  gold,  reflected 
itself  in  the  mirror  of  the  flat  roofs  and  flung  fleeting, 
ghostly  shadows  about  the  twelve  great  gates  of  the 
city.  The  light  fell  upon  the  city  wall,  the  purification 
pool,  gardens  filled  with  bee  hives,  long  alleys  of 
sycamore  trees,  of  palm  and  fig  trees.  It  fell  upon 
tethered  camels  becoming  restless  at  approach  of  day. 
It  saw  its  golden  surface  in  deep  cisterns.  It  shone 
upon  graves  in  which  the  bones  of  ancestors  rested 
under  the  curse  or  the  blessing  of  the  sons  of  Israel. 
Night  swept  across  the  world  of  space  like  a  prodi- 
gious face  across  the  mind  of  the  dreaming  prophet. 

The  king  lay  like  one  dead  upon  his  bed.     Motion- 

83 


84  FAMOUS  STORIES 

less,  four  men  sat  opposite  him,  their  misshapen  knotty 
hands  rested  upon  the  carven  Hons'  heads  that  formed 
the  arms  of  their  chairs.  Their  faces  were  so  still  it 
was  as  if  they  were  made  of  stone  and  only  the  trem- 
bling flames  in  the  bronze  receptacles  swept  over  them 
the  unreal  motion  of  shadows. 

The  first  wore  the  dress  of  a  priest  of  Israel.  His 
beard  was  parted  and  combed  and  reached  to  his  waist. 
His  name  was  Sadok.  The  second  wore  the  insignia 
of  the  head  of  the  army.  His  name  was  Banahash. 
The  other  two  were  courtiers,  Semej  and  Rej.  Their 
richly  oiled  hair  smelled  of  sandal  wood  and  hyacinth. 
They  had  torn  the  costly  garments  that  covered  their 
breasts.  Grief  dwelled  in  their  hearts  and  lessened  the 
quick  pulsing  of  blood  in  their  veins.  Their  attitude 
was  expectant.  It  was  evident  that  they  were  waiting 
for  something  important.  Their  eyes  rested  upon  the 
bed  where  David  lay  wrapped  in  the  lion's  skin.  His 
face  was  like  a  mask.  It  was  the  face  of  the  dead. 
The  body  of  the  king  was  beginning  to  grow  cold. 

"Nathan  does  not  come,"  remarked  Sadok. 

No  one  answered. 

Banahash    drew    his    brows    together    ominously. 
Semej  and  Rej  sighed. 

Again  there  was  silence,  heavy  and  prophetic. 

"Does  Bethsheba  know  what  Nathan  said?"  inquired 
Semej  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes,  she  knows,"  replied  Sadok. 

"And  has  she  agreed  to  it?"  asked  Rej. 

"She  had  to  agree.     Does  not  God  speak  through 


ABISAG  8s 

the  mouth  of  Nathan?  It  is  her  fault  that  she  does 
not  perform  the  last  service  for  David  the  King." 

"She  is  old.  She  is  burdened  with  years  and  ill- 
ness," objected  Semej. 

"Hush!     The  King  moves,"  whispered  Banahash. 

"No — it  was  just  a  rustling  noise  in  the  outer  hall. 
Slaves  are  bringing  the  warming  pans,  and  the  coals." 

Seven  negroes  in  short,  red  tunics  entered.  They 
bore  bronze  pans  filled  with  glowing  coals,  which  shone 
like  the  sweet  star,  Sahil,  when  it  first  pierces  the  mist 
of  evening  and  looks  down  upon  a  sleeping  world. 
They  placed  two  pans  at  the  foot  of  the  king,  two  at 
the  head,  and  one  on  either  side.  They  sprinkled 
myrrh  and  powdered  incense  upon  the  coals,  and 
disappeared  as  softly  as  phantoms.  The  seven  glow- 
ing pans  lighted  the  dim  room  and  sent  up  a  blueish 
smoke  that  filled  the  air  with  fragrance.  The  pale 
face  of  the  king  looked  paler.  The  four  men  who 
sat  and  watched  him  sank  lower  their  heads  upon  their 
breasts. 

To  the  warmth  of  the  summer  night  was  added  the 
heat  of  the  steaming  pans.  Beads  of  sweat  stood  out 
upon  the  brows  of  the  watching  men,  and  dotted  like 
pearls  their  long,  black  beards. 

The  door  opened.  A  man  of  giant  body  stood  upon 
the  threshold.  His  hair  and  beard  were  unkempt. 
They  knew  neither  oil  nor  comb.  His  caftan  was 
girdled  with  a  rope.  His  knotty,  muscular  feet  were 
covered  with  dust.  His  naked  breast  was  weather 
stained  and  looked  like  the  trunk  of  a  gnarled  fig  tree. 


86  FAMOUS  STORIES 

White,  bushy  brows  shaded  his  eyes  which  glowed  like 
the  coals  in  the  warming  pans. 

"Nathan!"  cried  the  watchmen  by  the  bed.  They 
arose  and  greeted  him  with  gestures  of  submission. 
The  expressions  upon  their  faces  changed.  The  face 
of  Sadok  showed  curiosity  held  in  check  by  fear;  the 
face  of  Banahash,  the  calm  of  expectation,  and  satis- 
fied desire;  the  faces  of  Semej  and  Rej,  mistrust 
coupled  with  fear  of  the  prophet. 

Nathan  looked  about  the  room,  and  came  nearer. 

"How  is  the  Anointed  of  the  Lord?"  he  asked 
quickly. 

"As  he  was  when  you  left  so  is  he  now.  Did  you 
bring  the  Sunnamite  maiden?" 

"She  is  here;  her  father,  too,"  repUed  Nathan, 
beckoning  toward  the  anteroom. 

A  man  entered.  His  head  was  bowed.  He  had 
little  twinkling  eyes,  a  red  beard,  and  dirty  hands.  It 
was  Lamek  of  the  tribe  of  Issaher.  A  slender  maiden 
enveloped  in  a  veil  followed  him.  Even  her  face  was 
covered,  only  the  shadow  of  her  eyes  could  be  seen. 

Lamek  bowed  low  as  to  his  knees.  At  this  moment 
he  was  so  small  he  resembled  a  dwarf.  This  impres- 
sion was  strengthened  by  the  saffron  yellow  caftan  and 
red  hair.  The  maiden  towered  like  a  young  palm 
beside  him. 

"Banahash,"  directed  Sadok,"  take  the  maiden  to 
the  bath  of  the  king  that  she  may  be  fit  for  the  bed  of 
the  king." 

Banahash  opened  a  little  door  that  shone  like  gold, 
which  was  entrance  to  the  place  of  the  bath.     The 


ABISAG  87 

room  was  walled  with  jasper.  In  the  center  was  the 
bath,  hewn  round  from  a  single  block  of  black  marble. 
From  the  center  of  the  ceiling  two  sea  serpents,  in 
which  huge  rubies  shone  for  eyes,  spouted  rose  water. 

Banahash  took  the  hand  of  the  maiden  and  led  her 
to  the  door,  where  he  gave  her  over  to  the  care  of 
four  slave  women.  Two  held  jars  of  precious  oint- 
ment, two  mirrors  of  ebony,  and  coverings  made  of 
purple  wool. 

Sadok  returned  to  Lamek  who  had  not  yet  lifted 
his  head.  But  his  sharp,  sly  eyes  kept  circling  the 
room,  so  that  not  the  slightest  motion  of  the  faces  of 
those  present  escaped  him.  Nathan,  the  prophet, 
stood  by  the  bed  of  David  the  King.  He  held  his 
hands  extended  as  one  who  implores  a  blessing.  His 
lips  trembled  with  prophetic  words. 

"Is  this  your  daughter,  Lamek?"  asked  Sadok. 

"Yes;  but  she  is  handsomer  than  I — or  her  dead 
mother." 

"Are  you  willing  to  do  what  Nathan,  the  man  of 
God,  has  told  you?" 

"If  it  is  the  will  of  God — and  the  people  of  Israel 
may  be  saved." 

"Did  she  agree?" 

"She  does  not  know.  But  my  daughter  is  obedient. 
My  will  is  hers." 

"Is  there  one  who  loves  her?" 

"Yes — and  no!  My  daughter  is  beautiful.  And 
yet  she  really  has  no  lover,  because  he  does  not  know 
how  beautiful  she  is.    My  eyes  watch  her  as  if  she 


88  FAMOUS  STORIES 

were  a  nugget  of  gold,  or  a  drop  of  water  in  the 
desert." 

"Who  is  her  lover?" 

"A  youth — an  insignificant  youth.  He  owns  nor 
field  nor  vineyard.  He  owns  no  camels,  nor  is  ke  the 
chief  of  a  caravan.  He  owns  nothing — nothing — It  is 
my  wish  to  obtain  money  enough  to  buy  a  vineyard 
near  Sunnam — to  leave  to  my  children — that  I  may 
not  die  childless." 

"Does — ^this  lover — know  what  is  to  happen?" 

"Yes — He  is  calm.  He  only  said  to  my  daughter, 
'I  will  stand  by  the  outer  door  of  the  palace  until  the 
end.  I  will  await  you  there,  to  lead  you  back  to  the 
vineyard  which  your  father  will  buy  for  us.  If  you 
remain  as  you  are  now,  you  will  come  without  my 
calling  you.  If  you  do  not  come  until  the  sun  has  set, 
I  shall  go  away  and  I  shall  never  look  upon  your  face 
again'." 

Sadok  did  not  answer.  He  went  into  a  room  in  the 
rear  of  the  sleeping  room,  where  a  massive  chest  stood. 
He  beckoned  to  Lamek  to  rome  nearer.  The  He- 
brew's eyes  greedily  took  in  the  contents  of  the  chest. 
He  saw  bars  upon  bars  of  red  gold,  cups  of  beaten 
silver,  rings,  armlets,  pearls  the  size  of  pigeon's  eggs. 
He  saw  gems  as  varied  in  color  as  the  flowers  of  the 
fields  in  spring.  Sadok  buried  his  hands  in  the  chest, 
drew  out  bar  after  glittering  bar,  and  piled  one  upon 
another  upon  the  floor.  He  piled  up  rings  covered 
with  gems.  Lamek  filled  his  arms,  while  his  eyes 
shone  fiercer  than  the  metal. 

Sadok  wished  to  close  the  cover.    But  the  Hebrew 


ABISAG  89 

stood  there  and  would  not  let  him.  He  kept  saying: 
"For  so  little  I  will  not  sell  my  daughter!"  Sadok 
bent  down  and  gave  Lamek  another  cup,  this  time  of 
silver  and  starred  with  rubies,  and  two  armlets.  On 
each  armlet  was  the  head  of  Anubis  carved  of  a  single 
onyx.     Lamek  was  satisfied  now  and  drew  back 

The  door  of  the  bath  opened  and  two  slave  women 
came  in  leading  Abisag.  She  was  robed  in  white, 
transparent  muslin.  About  wrists  and  ankles  were 
jewels.  Gold  dust  sparkled  upon  her  long,  black  hair, 
like  stars  in  a  dark  night. 

Sadok  signalled  the  slaves  to  leave.  The  Sunnamite 
maiden  stood  alone  and  trembling  in  the  midst  of  the 
grey,  old  men.  Her  eyes  were  fastened  upon  the  mar- 
ble floor.  Her  arms  were  folded  upon  her  breast, 
which  rose  and  fell  with  the  agitation  that  swayed  her. 

Sadok  drew  his  brows  together  sharply.  Banahash 
understood  the  sign,  approached  the  bed  of  the  king 
and  drew  back  the  lions'  skins  that  covered  it.  Sadok 
lifted  the  muslin  robe  from  the  shoulders  of  the 
maiden. 

Her  hair,  in  which  the  gold  dust  sparkled,  covered 
her  like  a  cloak.  Her  cheeks  were  the  color  of  the 
pomegranite.  Nathan  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led 
her  to  the  bed  of  the  king,  while  Banahash,  the  son  of 
Johad,  lifted  up  the  lions'  skins. 

The  maiden  embraced  the  cold  body  of  the  king  as 
a  daughter  would  embrace  a  dying  father.  Sadok 
spread  upon  them  a  woolen  coverlet  and  motioned  to 
the    others.    They    left    the    room.     Nathan,    alone, 


90  FAMOUS  STORIES 

remained,  kneeling  by  the  bed  of  David,  the  King, 
uplifting  his  hands  in  prayer. 

The  old  men  did  not  know  that  when  they  led  Abisag 
to  the  bed  of  the  king,  a  young  man  wearing  a  white 
robe  appeared  in  the  doorway.  He  went  away  again 
as  quickly  as  he  came.  But  he  had  seen  the  beauty  of 
the  Sunnamite  maiden.  This  young  man  was 
Solomon. 

From  that  moment  peace  vanished  from  the  heart 
of  Solomon.  He  was  even  indifferent  that  Adonias, 
the  son  of  Hagith,  whom  friends  had  chosen  king,  was 
reveling  day  and  night  in  the  streets  of  Jerusalem, 
with  his  followers.  He  did  not  know  that  his  mother, 
Bethsheba,  stood  white  and  trembling,  her  heart  filled 
with  bitterness  and  envy,  behind  a  door  of  King 
David's  chamber,  to  watch  the  influence  of  Abisag 
upon  the  life  of  the  King.  He  paid  no  heed  to  the 
opinions  of  the  unstable  courtiers  and  royal  syco- 
phants, nor  to  what  the  cunning  Sadok  and  secretive 
Nathan  had  in  mind.  Weary  in  body  and  dispirited, 
he  betook  himself  to  his  pleasure  palace  in  Baalhamon. 
Here  he  shut  himself  in,  and  throughout  the  night 
wandered  along  its  garden  ways,  where  century  old 
sycamores  looked  down  upon  him,  listening  the  while 
to  the  cicadas  of  the  nights  of  summer,  sing  and  sing. 

Once  when  he  was  about  to  lie  down  upon  his  couch 
to  rest,  a  slave  announced  the  unexpected  arrival  of 
Banahash. 

Solomon  did  not  care  to  see  him. 


ABISAG  91 

The  son  of  Johad  did  not  await  permission,  he 
rushed  into  the  room  declaring  breathlessly : 

*'Good  news!     The  king  lives.     The  king  spoke." 

Solomon  arose  from  his  couch  as  if  he  expected 
some  more  definite  communication. 

''You  must  go  back  with  me  to  the  palace.  It  is  a 
question  of  the  anointing  of  a  king." 

Solomon  fell  back  weakly  against  the  heaped  up 
rugs  upon  his  ted. 

"I  go  not  there  again." 
"But  it  is  the  will  of  the  king,  and  Bethsheba,  your 
mother.     Nathan  awaits  us  by  the  river.     In  his  hand 
is  the  holy  oil   for  anointing.     Adonias  fled  to  the 
mountains." 

"I  go  not,"  repeated  Solomon. 

"The  nation  awaits  you.  The  judges  are  on  your 
side.  The  warriors  are  calling  your  name  through  the 
streets  of  Jerusalem.  And  all  this  you  owe  to  the 
Sunnamite  maiden." 

"Abisag,"  repeated  Solomon  slowly.  "Am  I 
pledged  to  give  thanks  to  Abisag?" 

"For  everything,"  answered  Banahash.  "She 
awoke  the  king.  Otherwise  he  would  never  again 
have  spoken." 

"Very  well.    On — on!    I  go,"  said  Solomon. 

Seldom  has  a  king  at  his  anointing  shown  such  in- 
difference as  Solomon.  They  did  with  him  as  they 
wished.  They  led  him  hither  and  thither.  After 
being  proclaimed  king,  he  would  gladly  have  gone  back 
to   Baalhamon.     But  David  again  lay  as  one   dead, 


92  FAMOUS  STORIES 

wordless,  motionless,  between  the  pans  of  glowing 
coals,  wrapped  in  the  yellow  lion's  skin.  Nathan,  the 
prophet,  thought  the  end  was  near.  Abisag  still  vis- 
ited the  king,  but  her  efforts  were  useless. 

When  Solomon  entered  the  room  of  his  father, 
David,  the  King,  it  was  evening.  Banahash,  alone, 
was  with  him.  Solomon  sat  down  beside  him  and 
seemed  like  one  in  a  dream.  He  wished  to  see  Abisag 
when  she  came  to  the  king.  Hours  passed.  Banahash 
bent  over  the  king  and  arranged  the  coverings.  A 
shudder  seized  him.  David's  heart  did  not  beat.  He 
thought  he  must  be  mistaken.  He  took  a  mirror  of 
bronze  and  held  it  to  the  mouth  of  the  king.  The 
shimmering  surface  remained  smooth  and  bright 
David  was  dead! 

Banahash  tore  his  garments,  ran  to  Solomon,  fell 
down  in  front  of  him,  and  touched  his  forehead  to  the 
floor. 

"What  is  it,  Banahash?"  questioned  Solomon,  still 
in  his  dream. 

"You  are  king!  David  is  no  more.  I  hasten  to 
announce  to  the  priests." 

"Wait!"  commanded  Solomon.  *T  forbid  you  to 
take  a  step." 

Then  his  voice  changed  and  became  gentle  and 
pleading. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Banahash?" 

"I  would  give  my  life  to  you,"  replied  the  courtier. 

"It  is  your  duty  to  watch  by  the  King's  bed  until 
morning.  Very  easily  you  can  delay  the  announcement 
of  the  death  of  the  King." 


ABISAG  93 

Solomon  bent  and  whispered  in  the  ear  of  Banahash. 

'Will  you  do  it,  Banahash?" 

**I  will,  my  King,  if  you  will  tell  me  what  it  was  your 
father  demanded  against  Joab,  and  Semej,  whom  they 
call  the  magician." 

'1  will  tell  you— later." 

"No:  now  I  must  know  it!"  insisted  Banahash. 

''Later  I  will  tell  you.  I  swear  it  by  the  body  of 
David,  the  King !" 

"I  go — to  announce  to  Bethsheba,  and  the  priests — " 
'    "Listen,  then,  and  hear!" 

Again  he  bent  to  the  ear  of  the  still  kneeling  Bana- 
hash and  whispered  the  last  will  of  David,  the  King. 

"You  know  what  Joab  did  to  me.  You  will  proceed 
against  him  as  is  just.  Semej,  too,  you  hold  in  your 
power,  who  cursed  me  with  a  grievous  curse.  In  my 
wrath  I  swore  against  him :  I  will  not  slay  you  with  the 
sword!  But  you — ^pardon  him  not.  You  can  make 
him  descend  early  into  the  grave." 

"I  will  warn  my  companions,"  Banahash  thought 
quickly. 

"I  will  do  whatever  seems  good  to  me,"  thought 
Solomon. 

Just  as  upon  the  evenings  before,  the  Sunnamite, 
Abisag,  ascended  the  couch  of  David,  the  King.  She 
did  not  notice  that  the  light  was  dimmed  in  the  hanging 
receptacles  of  bronze,  and  that  the  great  room  grew 
dark  and  darker.  She  did  not  notice  that  the  pans  of 
coals  had  been  carried  away,  nor  that  a  great  mass  of 
lion's  skins  and  purple  coverings  had  been  heaped  upon 
the  couch  of  David.     She  lay  down  and  fell  asleep. 


94  FAMOUS  STORIES 

At  first  her  dream  was  monotonous  like  the  desert. 
But  this  desert  was  not  one  of  heat.  Cold  winds  blew 
over  it.  The  desert  stretched  to  the  horizon;  it  was 
dark  and  deep,  like  a  great  room  at  night.  No  bird 
swept  across  it.  Abisag  dreamed  that  she  stood  alone 
upon  this  monotonous  grey-yellow  expanse,  lost  in  a 
sea  of  twilight,  and  that  invisible  hands  placed  weights 
upon  her  feet.  Across  the  desert  blew  cold  winds 
such  as  are  known  in  the  East,  and  Abisag  thought 
tliat  the  stones  were  such  as  mark  the  way  of  tombs. 
She  was  afraid.  She  wished  to  cry  for  help.  Then 
the  waste  trembled,  and  the  twilight  began  to  lighten. 
Strips  of  azure  streaked  the  sky.  Grass  sprang  up 
upon  the  sand.  Cranes  flew  overhead.  Abisag  had 
closed  her  eyes,  but  her  eyelids  were  made  of  mother 
of  pearl  and  she  saw  through  them.  Where  the  desert 
horizon  joined  the  sky  something  roared  and  swayed. 
It  was  a  forest  of  cedar  trees  a  century  old.  The 
sunlight  lay  upon  their  fabulously  lovely  summits,  and 
the  wind  wafted  their  fragrance  abroad.  As  by  magic 
the  forest  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  She  heard  foun- 
tains leap  beneath  it.  Narcissus  blossoms  rose  to 
greet  her,  and  their  circle  of  leaves  was  like  human 
eyes.  Flowering  vines  embraced  her  body.  In  the 
crown  of  the  great  cedar  above  her  head,  a  bird  of  gold 
nested,  and  when  it  spread  its  wings  scarlet  blossoms 
fell  about  her.  And  the  song  of  the  bird  was  a  song 
of  power  and  mystery.  ''Set  me  like  a  seal  upon  thine 
heart.  Strong  as  death  is  love,  and  desire  is  implac- 
able as  the  grave — ." 


ABISAG  95 

Day  touched  her  eyelids.  She  awoke.  Beside  her 
lay  not  the  dead,  grey  King,  but  a  man  of  youth  and 
beauty,  robed  in  white.  He  slept.  Terrified,  Abisag 
leaped  from  the  couch,  and  stole  away  from  the  room. 
Outside,  upon  the  streets  of  Jerusalem,  where  a  great 
crowd  swayed,  and  waving  palm  leaves  were  carried 
on  high,  voices  called : 

''Long  live  Solomon,  King  of  Israeli 
Banahash  and  Nathan  had  announced  the  death  of 
David,  the  King,  because  the  sun  had  risen  and  day 
had  come. 

The  Sunnamite  maiden  did  not  leave  the  royal 
palace.  Some  days  later  when  she  stepped  from  her 
bath,  her  slave  women  told  her  that  Adonias,  the  son 
of  Hagith,  had  been  slain  by  Banahash  at  command  of 
Solomon,  and  that  his  dead  body  lay  before  the  palace 
door. 

Abisag  went  down  the  palace  steps  and  out  upon  the 
terrace.  She  saw  the  dead  body.  She  wept.  She 
fell  upon  it  and  covered  it  with  kisses.  While  Abisag 
wept  beside  the  body  of  Adonias,  Solomon,  amid  the 
clang  of  trumpets,  music  of  zithers  and  bells,  was 
welcoming  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  She  came  with  a 
great  retinue  of  camels,  elephants,  negroes  and  jesters, 
to  learn  of  the  wisdom  and  splendor  of  Solomon. 

That  same  day  were  Joab,  and  Semej  the  magician, 
put  to  death,  just  as  Solomon  had  promised  David, 
the  King. 


THE  KING'S  CLOTHES 
By  KOLOMAN  MIKSZATH 


MIKSZATH 

A  VOLUME  of  short  stories  by  Koloman  Mikszath — 
one  of  the  most  original  and  talented  writers  of 
modern  Hungary — was  published  a  few  years  ago  in 
English.  The  story  we  give  in  translation — "The 
King's  Clothes,"  was  printed  some  fifteen  years  ago, 
and  we  think  it  was  this  Hungarian  story  teller's  first 
appearance  in  print  in  the  United  States. 

This  story  illustrates  well  his  peculiar  talent  and  his 
ironical,  witty,  satirical  manner.  Two  novels  by  him 
— most  unusual  in  both  subject  and  treatment,  are 
The  Magic  Cloak  and  The  Village  That  Had  No 
Men  (Szelistye). 


THE   KING'S    CLOTHES* 

Chroniclers  are  sometimes  mistaken.  They  tell  us  the 
story  of  King  Morus  but  they  forget  to  state  over  what 
land  he  ruled.  Yet  this  does  not  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  subject,  because  who  believes  believes.  I  will 
relate  it  truthfully. 

One  afternoon  King  Morus  escaped  from  the  duties 
of  kingship,  which  means  that  he  signed  some  seventy 
documents,  which  the  Minister  read  to  him  in  a  sing 
song  voice.  His  Majesty  closed  his  eyes  and  was  kind 
enough  to  listen  to  the  unavoidable  documents  from 
end  to  end.  There  were  some  appointments  to  make, 
a  few  death  sentences,  and  other  similar  trifles.  He 
yawned  only  occasionally  at  the  reading.  "We  have 
finished,"  declared  at  length  the  Minister,  putting  the 
huge  book  of  papers  under  his  arm  and  sticking  the 
seal  of  the  realm  in  his  pocket. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Narciz,"  commanded  the  King. 
"Give  me  that  little  piece  of  iron  from  your  pocket, 
and  stamp  it  upon  one  of  these  empty  death  sentences, 
then  hand  it  over  and  I  will  sign  it." 

"An  empty  death  sentence,  Your  Majesty?"  ques- 
tioned the  Minister  astonished. 

*I  published  this  story  some  fifteen  years  ago  in  a  maga- 
zine devoted  to  translations.  It  was,  I  believe,  the  first 
appearance  by  Mikszath  in  English. — E.  W.  Underwood. 

99 


100  FAMOUS  STORIES 

"I'd  like  to  know  if  you  have  anything  against  it? 
Perhaps  it  may  occur  to  you  that  you  are  my 
constitutional  Minister  and  it  is  your  business  to  know 
what  the  seal  is  to  be  put  upon.  Narciz  you  are 
becoming  childish/' 

"O  Your  Majesty! — Your  Majesty — what  can  you 
be  thinking  of?  I  am  the  humble  servent  of  the  best 
of  kings." 

King  Morus  graciously  patted  old  Narciz  on  the 
shoulders,  then  took  the  paper  and  placed  it  in  the 
inner  pocket  of  his  coat  of  gold. 

"Now,  Old  Man,  I  have  the  genuine,  constitutional 
feeling  within  me.  By  Heaven,  I  have  it,  and  I  don't 
mind  telling  you — in  confidence — what  I  am  about  to 
do  with  this  death  sentence." 

"Most  glorious  King!"  murmured  Narciz. 
"I  am  trying  to  win  the  favor  of  a  very  beautiful 
lady — and  she  asked  me  for  this  trifle.     You  see  of 
course  I  couldn't  refuse  her  a  little  thing  like  this." 
"Your  Majesty  is  too  gracious!" 
"I  am  wise,  Narciz !     The  pity  is  the  poor  woman 
has  no  power,  but  she  has  a  husband.     I  give  her  the 
power  and  she  gets  rid  of  the  husband.    Sh — sh — 
Narciz — Not  a  word  to  any  one — " 

"It  is  sweeter  to  kiss  than  to  kill,"  flattered  Narciz. 
"Right  you  are.  Old  Man !  I  am  going  to  carry  this 
little  piece  of  paper  to  her  now,  because  the  favor  of 
the  King  is  a  fruitful  seed.  Write  that  sentence  down 
in  the  Golden  Book  of  the  realm.  Have  you  already 
written  down  what  I  said  yesterday  about  the  reck- 
oning of  the  ground-rent?" 


THE  KING'S  CLOTHES  loi 

"Certainly,  Your  Majesty." 

"Let  me  hear  how  it  sounds." 

The  Minister  opened  the  Golden  Book  and  read 
the  last  lines:  "A  good  king  is  like  a  gardener  who 
trims  the  trees  often." 

"Very  well  said,"  opined  the  king,  putting  on  his  fez. 
He  walked  to  the  private  garden  by  the  shore  of  the 
sacred  Nile,  the  garden  which  no  one  was  permitted 
to  enter. 

The  servants  and  courtiers  whom  he  met  on  the  way 
bowed  to  the  ground  as  he  passed.  "We  greet  you, 
great  King  Morus." 

His  glowing,  golden  garments  dazzled  all  eyes,  and 
beneath  his  proud  step  the  earth  trembled.  The  night- 
ingale in  the  garden  sang  of  love,  as  if  it  divined  the 
King's  thoughts.  The  white  lilies  bowed  their  heads. 
The  roses  strewed  fragrant  leaves  across  his  path,  and 
the  azaleas  whispered  a  name — not  the  name  of  the 
king — but  instead  the  name  Florilla,  the  enchanting 
woman  who  was  step-daughter  of  Narciz.  Within  the 
palace  all  were  wondering  where  the  King  was  going. 
The  Minister  whispered  to  his  son:  "He  is  carrying 
someone's  head  in  his  pocket." 

Rogus,  frightened,  felt  for  his  own  head.  He  found 
it  just  where  it  always  was,  upon  his  neck,  between 
his  two  shoulders. 

He  spoke  at  once  to  the  watchman  who  stood  by 
the  garden  gate: 

"Here  is  a  purse  of  gold.  Exchange  clothes  with 
me,  and  let  me  into  the  garden." 


102  FAMOUS  STORIES 

The  watchman  refused.  "I  can  not.  The  King 
would  cut  my  head  off  when  he  returns.'* 

"You  are  an  ass/'  repHed  Rogiis.  *The  King  can 
not  kill  you  until  he  comes  back.  I  will  kill  you  upon 
the  instant  if  you  do  not  obey  me.  So  you  can  see  you 
can  win  both  time  and  money." 

The  watchman  agreed.  Rogus,  who  had  long  sus- 
pected something,  put  on  the  watchman's  clothes  and 
followed  the  King.  Before  him,  too,  the  lilies  bent 
their  heads.  The  roses  strewed  fragrant  leaves,  and 
the  azaleas  whispered  the  name,  Florilla.  But  Rogus 
stepped  upon  them  and  crushed  them.  A  secret  gate, 
to  which  King  Morus  had  the  key,  led  from  the  garden 
to  the  shore  of  the  Nile,  along  which  were  pleasure 
palaces.  Among  these  palaces  stood  the  villa  of  Ro- 
gus, which  the  King  had  built  just  the  summer  before 
and  presented  to  his  faithful  servant.  Likewise,  just 
a  year  before,  the  Minister  had  written  in  the  Grolden 
Book,  that  the  favor  of  the  King  was  a  fruitful  seed. 

Rogus  kept  following  the  King,  an  easy  thing  now, 
because  the  King  had  forgotten  to  lock  the  garden 
gate. 

Profound  quiet  reigned  by  the  river,  even  the  voice 
of  the  ripples  was  subdued.  The  twilight  was  begin- 
ning to  color  the  Nile  steel  blue  so  that  it  resembled 
the  curving  blade  of  an  executioner's  giant  sword. 

When  the  King  reached  the  dwelling  of  Rogus,  he 
blew  three  times  on  a  silver  whistle.  At  this  sign  a 
young   woman  appeared  upon  the  balcony.     I   only 


THE  KING'S  CLOTHES  103 

say  this  about  her,  that  the  artists  of  that  day  could 
not  find  a  finer  head  to  preserve  for  posterity. 

"Florilla,"  whispered  the  King. 

Rogus  hid  behind  some  shrubbery  and  Hstened.  To 
be  sure  he  knew  all  about  it,  because  he  had  suspected 
it  long. 

"Yes,  my  King,"  replied  Florilla. 

"May  I  be  permitted  to  enter  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven?" 

"Why  ask?     A  King  commands." 

"I  have  left  your  husband  busy  at  court,  so  he  can 
not  surprise  us.  Perhaps,  too,  the  end  has  come  for 
him.     Here  is  the  death  sentence." 

"With  the  seal  of  the  Minister?" 

"Of  course." 

"A  shabby  trick  in  my  father,"  thought  Rogus. 

"Bring  it  up  to  me  in  an  hour,"  whispered  Florilla. 
"Within  the  hour  I  will  put  all  my  serving  women  to 
sleep." 

An  hour  was  a  long  time  for  a  King  who  was  in 
love  to  wait.  The  evening  was  hot.  An  odor  of  heat 
arose  from  the  earth.  There  was  no  breeze  and  the 
Nile  was  smooth  as  a  mirror.  A  conceited  bee  swam 
boldly  upon  a  rose  leaf,  without  fear  of  shipwreck. 
The  King  looked  long  at  the  enticing  water,  until  a 
desire  arose  in  him.  And  what  a  King  desires —  He 
seated  himself  beside  some  shrubbery  near  Rogus  and 
took  off  the  yellow  shoes  with  the  golden  spurs.  He 
laid  aside  his  purple  cloak  and  the  gold  colored  vest 
with  the  diamond  buttons.  He  took  the  silver  whistle 
from  his  neck,  and  then  took  off  all  his  costly  royal 


I04  FAMOUS  STORIES 

clothes,  and  placed  them  upon  the  soft  grass.  The 
mighty  ruler  looked  about.  No  one  was  to  be  seen. 
Who  indeed  would  dare  to  intrude  upon  this  forbidden 
shore  of  the  sacred  Nile! 

The  mirroring  water  alone  was  shameless  enough 
to  look  at  him  and  reflect  him.  Morus  jumped  into 
the  water  which  kissed  flatteringly  his  heated  body. 
He  enjoyed  himself  greatly.  The  trees  covered  with 
trailing  vines  built  a  fragrant  sheltering  wall  and  he 
walked  upon  shining  pebbles  which  tickled  his  feet. 

When  he  had  bathed  long  enough  and  the  hour  of 
the  love  tryst  drew  near,  he  came  out  of  the  water 
and  hastened  to  the  place  where  he  had  left  his  clothes. 
But  evidently  he  had  mistaken  the  piece  of  shrubbery 
and  hastened  to  the  next  one.  He  went  back.  There 
was  no  trace  of  the  royal  garments.  He  walked — his 
teeth  chattering — from  bush  to  bush.  He  ran  up  and 
down  the  shore,  looking  behind  all  the  bushes. 

"Where  are  my  clothes?  Who  has  stolen  them? 
It  could  not  have  been  a  man.  Do  you  hear,  Earth? 
If  you  have  swallowed  them,  I  will  tear  up  all  the  trees 
and  grass  in  my  realm." 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  ground  and  began  to  sob. 
Then  he  jumped  up  and  began  to  revile  the  moon. 

"Shine  better,  you  miserable  old  night-light !  If  you 
don't  I'll  smash  your  temple." 

But  the  moon  did  not  seem  to  hear.  The  moon 
acted  like  a  timid  girl  and  hid  behind  a  veil  of  cloud. 
It  began  to  rain.  The  dirt  and  water  from  the  trees 
disfigured  his  face.  In  despair  he  determined  to 
return  to  the  palace  and  procure  fresh  clothes.     The 


THE  KING'S  CLOTHES  105 

great  disgrace  of  being  seen  by  the  watchmen  was 
unavoidable,  but  he  knew  how  to  get  even.  He  would 
have  their  heads  chopped  off.  He  would  make  it 
impossible  for  them  to  laugh  about  it. 

He   hastened   to   the   secret   gate.     The   gate   was 
locked.     Then  he  remembered  he  had  left  the  key  in  it. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  along  the  shore 
to  the  south  gate,  and  from  there  through  many  streets 
to   the   palace.    What   ridiculous   songs   they   would 
write  about  him — his  subjects,  when  they  saw  him  like 
this.     But  fortunately  no  one  saw  him.     The  streets 
through  which  he  went  were  empty.     There  was  only 
a  beggar  sleeping  by  the  door  of   a  temple.    The 
King  awoke  him.    "Give  me  that  sack  that  covers 
you,''  he  commanded.    The  frightened  beggar  struck 
at  him  with  his  cane. 
"Get  out !    If  you  don't  I'll  knock  you  down." 
The  King  saw  that  he  was  the  weaker  and  hurried 
on.    A  pack  of  hungry  dogs  began  to   follow  him 
howling.     The  watchman  was   sleeping  at  the   gate 
when  someone  slapped  him  on  the  back. 
"Oh!    Oh!    Who  are  you?    What  do  you  want?" 
"Let  me  in — and  give  me  your  cloak." 
The  watchman  thought  it  was  a  joke.     He  made  up 
a  face  and  then  laughed. 

"Is   that   all   you   want?     I'm   sorry   the   imbecile 
asylum  is  so  far  away." 

"I  command  you  to  obey,"  repeated  the  King  in 
wrath. 

"Get  out !"  pointing  his  spear  at  the  ridiculous  figure, 
with  tousled  hair  and  bleeding  feet. 


io6  FAMOUS  STORIES 

"Don't  you  know  me?" 

"No." 

"I  am  the  King." 

"Or  a  fool.  Get  out !  You  are  lucky  that  I  am  not 
too  sleepy  to  give  you  a  good  beating  in  the  name  of 
the  King." 

King  Morus  then  began  to  speak  gently.  He  re- 
called that  this  was  the  way  to  get  on  with  underlings. 

"Listen — my  noble  Hero !  To-night  I  bathed  in  the 
Nile.  Some  one  stole  my  clothes.  I  swear  to  you 
that  I  am  King  Morus." 

"You  fool,"  declared  the  soldier. 

Crawling  along  the  wall,  weak  and  dejected,  he  made 
his  way  to  the  palace  of  his  adored  one.  He  decided 
to  knock  and  ask  for  clothes.  He  also  made  up  his 
mind  to  reduce  the  entire  city  to  ashes — ^just  as  soon — 
— just  as  soon — as  he  procured  clothes. 

Clothes?  Is  this  all  there  is  to  a  King?  Then  he 
saw  the  beggar.  The  old  good-for-nothing  was  up  and 
awake  and  waiting  for  the  wine  shops  to  be  opened. 

"Give  me  that  covering  of  yours,"  said  the  King. 
The  beggar  threw  him  a  look  of  scorn. 

"You  don't  feel  quite  so  high  and  mighty,  do  you? 
Where  did  you  pawn  your  clothes  ?  It's  a  shame  the 
way  the  wine  merchants  carry  on.  If  I  were  the  King 
I'd  hang  them  all." 

"That's  just  what  I'll  do,"  whispered  Morus— "if 
you'll  only  give  me  your  covering." 

"You'd  like  to  trick  me,  would  you,  you  rascal?" 

"I'm  the  king." 

The  beggar  looked  amazed. 


THE  KING'S  CLOTHES  107 

"Haven't  you  seen  my  face  on  the  gold  pieces  ?" 

"I  ?  I  never  had  any  gold  pieces !"  giving  the  king 
his  covering. 

Now  he  could  go  boldly  to  the  castle  of  Rogus. 
Despite  the  early  hour,  there  was  a  crowd  waiting  at 
the  gate.  They  were  whispering.  The  King  recog- 
nized his  servile  courtiers.  They  avoided  him.  They 
did  not  want  his  dirty  covering  to  touch  their  fine 
clothes.     The  King  struck  the  door  with  his  fist. 

"Open!     I  command  in  the  name  of  the  King!" 

The  watchman  by  the  door  laughed.  "Poor  fool!" 
Morus  began  to  implore.  "Don't  you  recognize  me? 
My  well  beloved  subjects,  look  at  me!  I  am  your 
ruler." 

Laughter  was  his  answer. 

"Kabul,  you  to  whom  last  week  I  gave  a  fortune, 
why  are  you  silent?  And  you — Niles — whom  I  lifted 
from  poverty,  can  you  deny  me?" 

Neither  Kabul  nor  Niles  knew  the  King. 

"Ungrateful  men!"  he  raged.  "Where  is  the  mis- 
tress?   Where  is  Florilla?     She  will  recognize  me." 

At  this  moment  the  herald  of  the  King  came  out. 
Upon  his  lifted  spear  he  bore  a  head — the  head  of 
Florilla. 

She  could  recognize  him  no  more.  She  was  silent 
forever.  The  golden  hair  fluttered  about  the  beautiful 
head,  and  covered  part  of  the  long  spear.  The  people 
shouted  with  joy.  The  King  sorrowfully  demanded 
who  had  done  this.  No  one  answered,  but  he  soon 
found  out.  The  herald  read  a  proclamation,  then 
nailed  it  to  the  door,  so  that  all  could  see  that  it  had  the 


io8  FAMOUS  STORIES 

seal  of  the  Minister.  King  Morus  pressed  his  hands 
to  his  temples  and  murmured :  "Perhaps  I  am  not  king 
Morus." 

The  crowd  increased.  Knights  and  ladies  came  to 
see  the  beautiful  head,  which  from  now  on  could  cause 
neither  envy  nor  love.  The  beggar  came,  too.  The 
only  one  who  spoke  to  the  King  was  the  beggar  who 
gave  him  the  covering. 

'*Get  out  of  here!  The  great  lords  will  beat  you 
and  take  away  the  covering  I  gave  you."  The  beggar 
took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  away.  He  felt  limp 
and  weak  and  had  no  will  of  his  own. 

On  the  great  square  his  eyes  again  brightened.  He 
saw  Narciz.  The  Minister  was  hurrying  to  the  royal 
presence,  a  package  imder  his  arm.  He  ran  after  him. 
He  fell  upon  his  neck. 

"Narciz!  Narciz!  You  dear  old  man!  Lucky 
for  me  to  find  you !" 

The  Minister,  in  anger,  freed  himself. 

"What  sort  of  shameless  creature  are  you?" 

"Don't  you  recognize  me?     I  am  the  King." 

"Of  course  not!"  replied  the  Minister,  laughing. 
"You  resemble  him  a  little,  if  you  were  not  so  hoarse." 
He  tapped  him  gently  on  the  back  with  the  gold  headed 
cane  which  the  King  had  given  him  on  his  fiftieth 
birthday. 

In  the  merriest  mood  the  Minister  entered  the  royal 
dwelling.  Servants  ran  ahead  to  open  doors  for  him, 
until  he  came  to  the  room  of  the  royal  presence — 
where  the  King — Rogus — awaited  him. 

Rogus  told  the  story  to  him ;  how  he  had  overheard 


THE  KING'S  CLOTHES  109 

the  conversation  between  Florilla  and  the  King,  how 
he  had  put  on  the  King's  clothes,  and  written  Florilla's 
name  upon  the  empty  death  sentence.  What  happened 
after  this  chroniclers  relate,  to  be  sure,  but  I  am  not 
going  to  repeat  it  to  you,  because  I  do  not  believe  the 
ending  of  the  aflFair  myself. 


WHEN  THE  BRIGHT  NIGHTS  WERE 
By  PETRI  ROSEGGER 


ROSEGGER 

Petri  Kettenfeier  Rosegger  (born  in  1843  ^^  Alpel, 
Steiermark)  is  a  popular  and  prolific  writer  of  Austria. 
His  father  and  mother  were  both  charcoal  burners  in 
the  great  forest  which  he  has  pictured  so  often,  and 
his  youthful  surroundings  were  most  meager.  His 
mother  was  a  woman  of  talent ;  she  was  one  of  nature's 
poets  and  from  her  came  his  mental  ability.  At  seven- 
teen he  was  apprenticed  to  a  tailor,  and  in  the  few 
years  that  followed,  he  worked  in  sixty-seven  different 
families. 

In  this  way  he  learned  the  life  of  the  peasants  of 
his  country  and  at  the  same  time  sketched  the  idea  of 
Waldheimat  (Forest  Home),  his  first  important  work 
— ^which  has  now  become  a  classic — and  from  which 
this  story  is  taken. 

Later  Dr.  Svoboda,  editor  of  a  paper  in  Graz,  heard 
of  him,  and  with  the  aid  and  cooperation  of  friends, 
helped  him  to  an  education.  His  descriptions  of  the 
wooded  country  where  he  was  bom,  and  of  peasant 
life  in  the  Alps,  arc  among  the  finest  in  the  language. 


WHEN  THE  BRIGHT  NIGHTS  WERE 

The  summer  had  been  hot.  The  moss  in  the  forest 
was  faded  and  dry,  and  between  the  sparse  blades  of 
grass  one  could  see  the  grey  ground.  Beside  the  piles 
of  dried  pine  needles  on  the  floor  of  the  forest,  lay 
dead  ants  and  beetles.  The  stones  in  the  bed  of  the 
river  were  dry  and  white  as  ivory.  Fish  and  frogs 
were  dying  in  the  little  round  pools  that  were  occa- 
sionally visible  between  the  stones. 

The  air  was  heavy,  and  the  mountains — even  the 
near  ones — were  blue.  When  the  sun  arose  it  was  as 
red  as  the  autumn  leaf  of  a  beech  tree,  then,  later, 
pallid  and  dull,  so  that  one  could  look  straight  at  it. 
It  crawled  lifelessly  across  the  grey  desert  of  the  sky; 
the  people  began  to  hope  for  rain,  but  a  little  breeze 
sprang  up,  and  when  morning  came,  the  clouds  had 
disappeared  and  even  the  dew  was  not  to  be  seen. 

Down  in  the  village  they  appointed  a  day  of  prayer 
for  rain.  From  all  the  forest  the  people  came  in 
crowds.  Only  old  Markus  and  I  remained  at  home 
in  the  empty  house,  and  the  old  servant  said  to  me; 
'Tf  fine  weather  comes,  it  will  rain — so  of  what  use 
is  the  day  of  prayer?  If  the  Lord  God  made  us  and 
put  us  here,  he  hasn't  the  foolish  head  to  forget  us. 
And  if  he  hasn't  any  head  at  all  but  just  made  the 
Vrorld  with  hj§  hands  and  feet,  then  he  hasn't  any  ears^ 


114  FAMOUS  STORIES 

has  he?  So  whafs  the  use  of  all  this  howling  in  the 
village!     Don't  you  agree  with  me  yourself,  Boy?" 

What  all  do  not  people  say!  Old  Markus  breaks 
his  head  thinking  over  things  he  knows  nothing  about, 
is  what  they  say. 

Just  then  a  shepherd  from  the  Riegelberg  jumped 
into  the  door.  He  was  so  excited  he  could  hardly 
speak.  He  pointed  through  the  window  with  both 
forefingers,  toward  the  crest  of  the  Filnbaum  Forest. 
The  old  servant  followed  the  direction  and  clasped  his 
hands  in  fear.  There,  behind  the  summit,  whirled 
upward  a  circling  column  of  red  smoke,  which  spread 
out  and  blackened  the  sky. 

"That  may  be  very  serious,"  declared  Markus.  He 
seized  an  axe  and  hurried  away.  The  smoke  rose 
thicker  and  thicker,  and  spread  out  faster  and  faster. 
I  began  to  cry.  Old  Markus  paid  no  attention  to  me; 
he  had  other  work  to  do. 

On  the  sunny  slopes  of  the  Filnbaum  Forest  it  had 
begun,  where  there  was  a  space  overgrown  with  with- 
ered briars  and  bushes.  Near  the  growth  of  dry 
larch  trees  the  fire  began,  no  one  knows  how.  First  it 
skipped  along  lightly  from  twig  to  twig,  then  upward 
from  great  bough  to  bough,  with  wide  fluttering  wings. 
Soon  the  conflagration  unchained  its  wild  powers,  and 
set  floating  its  red,  victorious  banners.  Here  the 
forest  becomes  thicker  and  loftier;  long  braids  of  moss 
swing  from  the  branches,  and  the  great  trees  which 
were  wounded  by  a  hail  storm  some  years  ago,  are  bare 
and  resinous  to  the  summit.  With  what  relish  the 
fiery  tongues  lick  these  great  trunks,  and  then  flare 


WHEN  THE  BRIGHT  NIGHTS  WERE    115 

up  into  space!  And  down  upon  the  ground  a  brood 
of  little  red  serpents  begin  to  crawl  in  all  directions, 
and  to  develop  a  hideous  life.  The  few  wood 
choppers  run  around  and  around  in  confusion,  and 
come  and  cry  for  help.  But  the  great  forest  and  all 
its  huts  are  empty. 

The  people  have  gone  to  the  village  to  pray  for 
rain.  When,  hours  later,  they  start  to  return,  the 
great  forest  is  in  flames.  There  is  a  feverish  trem- 
bling in  the  air,  a  cracking  and  rattling;  twigs  break, 
trunks  crash  down  and  send  up  a  multitude  of  sparks, 
and  waves  of  smoke.  Fresh  breaths  of  burning  air 
float  over  the  woodland;  the  flames  give  birth  to  a 
storm-wind  which  they  ride. 

Men  worked  and  worked;  some,  half  burned,  had 
to  be  carried  out.  The  servant,  Markus,  saw  the 
heart-breaking  result,  but  he  did  not  complain  nor  was 
he  discouraged,  he  worked  quietly  and  persistently. 
His  clothing  began  to  catch  fire.  He  ran  down  to  the 
river  bed  and  rolled  in  the  sand  until  it  clung  to  and 
covered  his  rough  clothing.  Now  he  owned  a  coat  of 
mail.  He  hewed  off  branches ;  he  cut  down  trees,  but 
that  did  not  help.  The  glowing  river  rolled  on;  dead 
trees,  bare  branches  waited  eagerly  for  the  devouring 
flame,  and  burned  at  the  first  breath. 

Now  the  workmen  tried  to  get  ahead  of  the  fire  by 
cutting  down  great  spaces  of  trees,  and  thus  by  making 
a  clearing,  set  a  limit  to  its  power.  Then  the  con- 
flagration divided  itself  and  spread  out  resplendent 
arms  in  other  directions.  When  evening  came  the 
wind   rose;   it   tore   into   shreds   the   gorgeous    and 


ii6  FAMOUS  STORIES 

triumphant  flame-banners,  and  scattered  the  fragments' 
over  the  forest  land.  There  was  a  monotonous  and 
uncanny  moaning  in  the  heavens,  and  a  marvelous, 
unnatural  light  fltmg  far  and  wide  over  all  the  darkly 
wooded  country. 

Exhausted  and  helpless,  the  workmen  rested;  the 
women  carried  their  belongings  otit  of  their  cottages 
without  knowing  what  to  do  with  them. 

In  the  deep  valleys  there  was  peace  and  quiet. 
There  one  heard  only  the  whispering  of  the  tall  pine 
trees.  But  the  night  sky  was  rose-colored,  and 
occasionally  a  fire-dragon  sped  overhead.  Sometimes 
twittering  birds  came,  and  homeless  animals.  The 
deer  came  up  to  the  dwellings  of  men. 

"Our  fate  will  be  that  of  the  deer,"  complained  the 
old  women.  "There  is  no  hope  of  saving  the  forest 
now.  It  will  all  be  burned !  Oh !  Holy  Savior — ^this 
is  the  Last  Judgment." 

For  days  the  conflagration  lasted. 

From  our  house — high  among  the  woodlands — we 
could  look  down  upon  the  trees  of  the  Filnbaum 
Forest,  and  watch  the  flames  climb  up.  The  land  was 
covered  with  a  sad  veil,  and  smoke  choked  us.  Above, 
in  the  sky,  hung  a  huge,  tragic,  red  wheel  which  the 
smoke  whirled  about  but  could  not  destroy.  That  was 
the  sun.  We  watched  the  flames  draw  nearer  and 
nearer  to  us.  They  swept  over  the  heights,  down  into 
the  valleys,  and  at  length  climbed  the  hillside  toward 
our  house.  We  needed  no  burning  pine  cones  in  the 
evenings,  we  had  light  enough,  because  ten  minutes 
yr^lk  frgm  our  door  the  be„autiful  fprest  was  flaming. 


WHEN  THE  BRIGHT  NIGHTS  WERE    117 

Long  ago  wc  had  driven  the  cattle  to  the  Aim  Meadow 
and  carried  the  furniture  out  into  the  field.  People 
came  running  by  who  were  half  mad.  Old  Martin 
kept  his  senses  better  than  the  rest,  although  his  hut 
was  burned,  he  picked  cranberries  at  midnight  by  the 
light  of  the  flames.  My  father  went  upon  the  roof 
of  our  cottage,  carrying  a  pole  on  the  end  of  which 
was  a  rag  which  was  wet.  With  this  he  put  out  the 
falling  sparks.  On  the  fifth  night,  when  we  were 
sleeping  in  a  comer  of  our  empty  rooms,  we  were 
awakened  by  a  great  roaring.  Old  Markus,  who  was 
keeping  watch  upon  the  roof,  called  to  us.  "That's 
good!     That's  good!" 

A  storm  had  arisen  and  now  it  was  raging  over  the 
burning  woodland,  with  a  power  that  was  splendid 
and  terrifying.  It  roared  and  thundered  like  a  cata- 
ract turned  loose  among  the  trees.  The  fire  was 
turned  away  from  our  direction,  and  that  was  what 
caused  the  words  of  old  Markus.  The  flames  were  In 
wild  flight.  They  leaped  over  entire  stretches  of  for- 
est and  set  fire  to  fresh  woodlands  far  away. 

"It  is  over !  We  are  saved !"  exclaimed  the  helpless 
people  in  surprise.  Some,  indeed,  when  the  smoke 
cleared  away  and  they  saw  the  bald  mountain  sides, 
regained  their  normal  mind  and  said:  "Surely  there 
is  going  to  be  a  great  festival  for  the  mountains  have 
shaved  themselves," 

When  the  storm  was  over,  the  rain  came.  For  days 
the  rain  fell  and  the  heavy  clouds  hung  low.  At  last 
the  fire  was  extinguished.  Over  the  forest  spread  a 
frosty  fog,  for  fall  had  come. 


Ii8  FAMOUS  STORIES 

The  burning  of  the  forests  was  so  huge  a  thing  that 
it  could  be  painted  only  by  a  powerful  imagination. 
Such  an  imagination  is  not  mine,  therefore  there  was 
nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  to  sketch  it  roughly  with 
the  worn  pencil  of  memory. 

After  the  cold  mists  of  autumn  came  the  snow. 
That  winter  from  our  windows  we  saw  more  white 
spaces  than  black.  When  spring  came,  then  we 
realized  what  the  great  fire  had  done.  Every  where 
black  ground,  rust  hued  stones,  roots  that  looked  like 
coals,  and  tall,  black  trunks  towering  over  all. 

Workmen  came.  They  plowed  the  blackened  soil. 
They  sowed  grain.  The  early  fall  brought  splendor. 
No  one  in  all  our  forest  land  had  ever  seen  such  a 
magnificent  harvest  as  covered  the  mountain  sides.  I 
recall  what  the  village  pastor  said:  "The  Lord  God 
strikes  wounds,  but  he  sends  the  balsam  that  heals. 
Praised  be  His  name!'^ 

From  the  Filnbaum  Forest  to  our  very  door  were 
fields,  and  for  thirty  years  the  burned  woodland  gave 
our  people  bread.  Since  then  our  people  are  scattered ; 
they  have  moved  away,  and  a  fresh,  new,  forest  is 
beginning  to  grow  upon  the  mountain  sides. 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 
By  ALEXANDER  L.  KIELLAND 


KIELLAND 

Alexander  L.  Kielland  is  the  Norwegian  writer  of 
whom  it  has  been  said  that  he  has  given  to  his  northern 
tongue  the  flexibility  and  the  grace  of  the  French 
tongue.  He  is  par  excellence  a  writer  of  the  short 
story  and  is  renowned  for  the  skill  of  his  technique. 

One  volume  of  his  stories  has  been  published  in 
America.  The  story  we  give — The  Point  of  View, 
is  new,  however,  to  American  readers. 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 

In  front  of  the  garden  gate  of  the  villa  of  Lawyer 
Abel  a  small,  elegant  trap  drew  up,  to  which  two 
handsome,  well  groomed  horses  were  attached. 

Upon  the  harness  was  neither  silver  nor  any  shining 
metal;  it  was  dull  black,  and  even  the  buckles  were 
covered  with  leather.  The  shining  wood  of  the  trap 
showed  just  a  trace  of  dark  green  in  its  color.  The 
upholstery  was  a  dark  and  modest  grey,  and  only 
when  one  examined  it  closely,  did  one  discover  that 
it  was  made  of  heavy  silk.  The  coachman  was  as 
correct  as  an  English  coachman ;  all  in  black,  the  coat 
tightly  buttoned,  showing  a  space  of  white  at  the  neck. 

Mrs.  Warden,  who  sat  alone  in  the  trap,  bent  for- 
ward and  placed  her  hand  upon  the  ivory  handle. 
Slowly  she  got  out,  her  long  gown  trailing  behind 
her,  and  carefully  closed  the  door  of  the  trap. 

Mrs.  Warden  walked  through  the  little  garden,  and 
entered.  She  looked  through  the  open  door  into  the 
adjoining  room,  and  saw  the  lady  of  the  house  standing 
beside  a  table  littered  with  bright  colored  cloth,  and 
with  several  copies  of  "The  Bazaar." 

"Ah — you  have  come  just  in  time — dear  Emilie!" 
declared  Mrs.  Abel.  "I  am  in  despair  about  my 
seamstress.  She  can  not  design  anything  new,  so  here 
I  sit  turning  the  leaves  of  "The  Bazaar.*'     Take  oflf 

121 


122  FAMOUS  STORIES 

your  wraps  and  help  me.  I  am  trying  to  design  a 
street  dress." 

"I  am  not  capable  of  helping  you  when  it  is  a 
question  of  dress,"  replied  Mrs.  Warden. 

Mrs.  Abel  stared  at  her  in  astonishment.  There 
was  something  unusual  in  the  tone  of  voice,  and  she 
had  great  respect  for  the  opinion  of  her  wealthy  friend. 

"Don't  you  remember  that  I  told  you  that  just  a 
little  while  ago  Mr.  Warden  insisted  upon  my  buying 
a  new  silk  gown?" 

"Yes — yes — of  Madame  Labiche.  Of  course  I 
remember,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Abel.  "And  now  I  sup- 
pose you  are  on  the  way  to  purchase  it.  Take  me 
with  you!     That  will  be  pleasant." 

"I  am  not  going  to  see  Madame  Labiche,"  replied 
Mrs.  Warden  with  solemn  dignity. 

"For  goodness  sake,  why  not?"  questioned  her 
friend,  opening  her  pretty  brown  eyes  with  astonish- 
ment. 

"Well— I  will  tell  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Warden.  "I 
am  convinced  that  we  can  not  spend  so  much  money 
and  keep  a  good  conscience — when  we  know  how 
much  poverty  there  is  in  this  city  in  which  we  live. 
There  are  hundreds  of  families  who  are  suffering — 
the  direst  need!" 

"Yes — but — ,"  objected  Mrs.  Abel,  casting  a  depre- 
cating glance  toward  the  table.  "It  is  so  everywhere. 
There  can  not  help  but  be  inequality — " 

"We  must  be  careful  not  to  increase  the  inequality. 
We  must  do  everything  in  our  power  to  lessen  it," 
insisted  Mrs.  Warden.     Mrs.  Abel  felt  that  her  friend 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  123 

gave  a  glance  of  disapproval  at  the  table  covered  with 
cloth,  where  the  copies  of  "The  Bazaar"  lay. 

"It  is  only  alpaca,"  she  ventured  timidly. 

"Don't  think,  dear  Caroline,  that  I  reproach  you 
Things  of  this  kind  depend  wholly  upon  the  individual. 
Every  one  must  act  as  he  thinks  •  he  is  answerable  to 
his  own  conscience." 

The  conversation  continued  in  this  manner,  and  Mrs. 
Warden  explained  that  she  was  now  on  her  way  to 
visit  one  of  the  poorest  quarters  of  the  city,  in  order 
to  see  conditions  with  her  own  eyes,  and  to  convince 
herself  of  the  way  in  which  the  poor  really  live. 

A  few  days  before,  she  had  read  the  yearly  state- 
ment of  a  private  institution  for  the  poor,  of  whose 
board  of  managers  her  husband  was  a  member.  She 
had  purposely  avoided  asking  the  police,  or  the 
Superintendent  of  the  Poor,  for  statements,  because 
it  was  her  intention  to  see  for  herself,  and  to  form  her 
own  opinion.  The  good-by  of  the  friends  was  a  little 
cooler  than  usual.  Both  were  in  serious  mood.  Mrs. 
Abel  remained  in  the  garden  room.  She  did  not  feel 
incUned  to  proceed  further  with  the  design  for  the 
street  dress,  although  the  material  was  unusually 
attractive.  She  heard  the  sound  of  the  wagon  wheels 
upon  the  level  roadway  of  the  residence  quarter  as  it 
rolled  away. 

"What  a  good  heart  Emilie  has  V  she  sighed. 

Nothing  was  further  from  this  young  woman's 
disposition  than  envy  and  ill  will,  and  yet  it  was  with 
a  feeling  akin  to  this  that  to-day  she  watched  the  trap 


124  FAMOUS  STORIES 

drive  away.  Whether  it  was  the  good  heart  or  the 
elegant  trap  it  would  be  hard  to  say. 

The  coachman  had  taken  his  orders  without  a 
change  of  expression  He  drove  farther  and  farther 
along  the  strange  streets  of  the  poor  quarter,  just  as 
if  he  were  going  to  a  court  ball. 

At  last  he  received  command  to  stop,  and  it  was 
high  time.  The  streets  became  narrower  and  nar- 
rower, it  was  almost  as  if  the  well  fed  horses  and  the 
elegant  trap  would  be  caught  like  a  stopper  in  the 
neck  of  a  bottle. 

The  correct  coachman  gave  no  sign  of  anxiety 
although  the  situation  was  really  becoming  acute.  An 
impudent  voice  called  from  a  garret  window  and 
advised  him  to  kill  the  horses  because  they  would  never 
get  out  alive. 

Mrs.  Warden  climbed  down  and  turned  into  a  still 
narrower  street.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  see 
the  worst.  In  a  door  stood  a  half  grown  girl.  "Do 
poor  people  live  in  this  house?" 

The  girl  laughed  and  answered  something  then 
darted  ahead  of  her  through  the  door.  Mrs.  Warden 
did  not  catch  the  words,  but  she  had  the  feeling  that 
she  said  something  insulting. 

She  entered  the  first  room  she  came  to.  The  air 
was  so  thick  it  made  her  dizzy,  and  she  was  glad  to 
find  a  place  to  sit  down  by  the  stove.  In  the  gesture 
with  which  the  woman  swept  the  clothing  from  the 
seat  to  the  floor,  and  in  the  smile  with  which  she 
greeted  the  elegant  lady,  there  was  something  that 
offended  her.     She  received  likewise  the  impression 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  125 

that  the  woman  had  seen  better  days,  although  her 
manner  was  rather  bold  than  gentle,  and  the  smile 
certainly  was  not  pleasant.  The  long  train  of  the  pale, 
grey  street  dress  floated  out  over  the  dirty  floor,  and 
when  she  seated  herself  she  could  not  help  remem- 
bering a  witticism  of  Heine's:  "You  look  like  a  bon- 
bon that  has  been  lying  in  the  sun." 

The  conversation  began  and  progressed  as  is  the  cus- 
tom with  such  conversations.  If  each  of  these  women 
had  kept  to  the  usual  tone  of  her  conversation,  neither 
would  have  understood  a  word  of  what  the  other  said. 

But  since  the  poor  know  the  rich  so  much  better 
than  the  rich  know  the  poor,  they  hit  upon  a  form  of 
speech,  which  experience  had  taught,  and  which  is  so 
far  successful  that  the  rich  are  at  once  put  in  mood  to 
give.     Better  than  this  they  can  not  know  each  other. 

This  speech  the  poor  woman  understood  to  perfec- 
tion, and  soon  Mrs.  Warden  began  to  comprehend 
their  miserable  life.  She  had  two  children,  one  a  boy 
of  four  or  five  who  lay  on  the  floor,  and  a  baby. 

Mrs.  Warden  looked  attentively  at  the  little  colorless 
creatures  and  could  not  believe  that  the  baby  was 
thirteen  months  old.  She  had  a  baby  at  home  of  seven 
months  who  was  twice  as  large. 

"You  ought  to  feed  the  baby  something  strength- 
ening," she  said.  Then  she  said  something  that  floated 
through  her  head  about  prepared  foods.  At  the 
words  ''something  strengthening,"  an  unkempt  head 
rose  from  the  straw  bed.  It  was  the  pale,  hollow-eyed 
face  of  a  man,  with  a  cloth  tied  tightly  about  his 
forehead. 


126  FAMOUS  STORIES 

Mrs.  Warden  was  afraid.  "Your  husband?"  she 
inquired. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply.  He  did  not  go  back  to  work 
to-day  because  he  had  the  toothache. 

Mrs.  Warden  had  had  toothache.  She  knew  how 
painful  it  was.  She  at  once  said  something  sympa- 
thetic. The  man  murmured  something  and  fell  back 
upon  the  straw.  At  this  moment  Mrs.  Warden 
discovered  another  person  whom  she  had  not  seen 
before — a  young  girl,  who  sat  in  the  opposite  comer 
by  the  stove.  She  stared  at  the  el^ant  lady  a 
moment,  and  then  turned  her  back  upon  her.  Mrs. 
Warden  thought  the  young  girl  had  some  sort  of  work 
in  her  lap  which  she  wished  to  conceal.  Perhaps  it 
was  an  old  dress  which  she  was  trying  to  mend. 

"Why  does  the  boy  lie  there  on  the  floor?"  she 
inquired. 

"He  is  lame,"  answered  the  mother.  Now  followed 
a  pitiful  tale  and  a  description  of  what  had  happened 
after  the  scarlet  fever. 

"You  should  buy  him  a  wheeled  chair,"  Mrs.  War- 
den was  on  the  point  of  remarking,  when  it  occurred 
to  her  it  would  be  better  for  her  to  buy  it.  It  is  not 
wise  to  give  poor  people  money,  she  remembered. 
But  she  would  give  the  poor  woman  something,  of 
course.  She  felt  in  her  pocket  for  her  purse.  It  was 
not  there.  She  must  have  left  it  in  the  trap.  Just  as 
she  was  about  to  explain  to  the  poor  woman  what  had 
happened,  a  well  dressed  man  opened  the  door  and 
entered.  His  face  was  round  and  of  a  peculiar  dry 
pallor. 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  127 


"Mrs.  Warden,  I  believe/'  said  the  stranger.  "I 
saw  your  trap  up  here  in  the  street,  and  I  suppose  this 
is  your  pocket  book  which  I  am  bringing  you," 

It  belonged  to  her.  Upon  the  smooth  ivory  was 
E.W.  engraved  in  black. 

"Just  as  I  turned  the  corner,  I  saw  it  in  the  hands 
of  a  girl — one  of  the  worst  in  the  quarter.  I  am 
Superintendent  of  the  Poor  for  this  district." 

Mrs.  Warden  thanked  him.  When  she  turned 
toward  the  occupants  of  the  room  again,  she  was 
terrified  at  the  change  that  had  taken  place.  The  man 
was  sitting  up  in  bed  and  staring  at  the  stranger.  The 
woman^s  face  wore  a  hateful  expression,  and  the 
lame  child  on  the  floor,  propped  up  upon  its  arms, 
bristled  like  a  wild  animal.  In  all  the  eyes  lay  the 
same  hate,  the  same  warlike  defiance. 

"What  a  sight  you  are  to-day,  Martin!"  declared 
the  stranger.  "I  thought  to  myself  that  you  were  one 
of  them  last  night.  I  was  right  you  see.  They'll 
come  after  you  this  afternoon.  You'll  get  at  least 
two  months  in  prison." 

Then  the  deluge  descended  upon  them.  The  man 
and  woman  shrieked  at  each  other.  The  girl  came 
from  behind  the  stove  and  joined  them.  No  one  could 
distinguish  words  they  were  so  busy  with  hands  and 
eyes.  It  seemed  as  if  the  little  stuffy  room  must 
explode  with  the  pressure  of  unchained  passions. 

Mrs.  Warden  turned  pale  and  arose.  The  stranger 
opened  the  door  and  they  went  out.  In  the  corridor 
she  heard  the  frightful  laughter  of  the  woman.  And 
the  woman  who  laughed  like  that  was  the  same  woman 


128  FAMOUS  STORIES 

who  had  spoken  so  gently  and  pitifully  of  the  sick 
children.  Almost  unwillingly  she  followed  the  man 
who  had  brought  about  this  amazing  change.  At  first 
she  listened  to  him  with  a  proud  indifferent  air. 
Gradually,  however,  her  attitude  changed,  there  was 
so  much  truth  in  his  words.  He  was  glad  to  meet  a 
woman  like  Mrs.  Warden  who  had  heart  for  the  poor 
who  suffered.  Although — usually — the  best  inten- 
tioned  help  fell  in  the  wrong  place.  Good  heartedness 
was  something  praiseworthy  anyway. 

"But  does  not  this  family  need  help?  I  received 
the  impression  that  the  woman  had  seen  better  days. 
Perhaps  she  could  be  helped  out  of  this  life." 

"I  am  sorry  to  tell  you.  Madam,  that  she  has  been 
a  very  bad — public  character." 

Mrs.  Warden  trembled. 

She  had  spoken  with  a  woman  like  that! — about 
children. 

"And  the  young  girl?''  she  asked  timidly. 

"Did  you  not  look  at  her  Madam,  and  observe  her 
condition  ?'* 

"No — you  mean — ?" 

The  Superintendent  of  the  Poor  murmured  a  few 
words.  Mrs.  Warden  shuddered  " — and  that  man? 
The  man  of  the  house  T^ 

"Yes,  Madam.  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you  this,'*  and 
he  whispered  again. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  elegant  lady.  She 
became  faint  and  dizzy.  They  were  walking  toward 
her  trap,  which  was  somewhat  farther  on  than  the 
place  where  she  had  left  it. 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  129 

The  correct  coachman  had  played  a  trick  upon  the 
street  urchins.  After  he  had  sat  for  a  time  as  straight 
and  impassive  as  a  taper  of  wax,  he  guided  the  fat 
horses,  step  by  step,  to  a  wider  place  in  the  street 
which  could  not  have -been  noticed  by  any  one  except 
the  trained  eye  of  the  correct  coachman.  A  crowd 
of  ragged  gamins  surrounded  him  and  tried  to  frighten 
the  fat  horses,  but  the  spirit  of  the  correct  coachman 
had  become  their  spirit. 

After  he  had  sat  there  calmly  lor  a  while,  he  saw 
a  little  irregular  space,  made  by  two  opposing  stair- 
ways. Slowly  he  guided  the  horses  here  and  made  a 
turn,  so  sharp,  so  crisp,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  frail 
trap  must  be  crushed  between  the  masonry,  but  so 
accurately,  that  scarcely  an  inch  intervened  on  either 
side.  Now  he  was  sitting  again  as  straight  as  a  taper 
of  wax.  But  he  was  treasuring  in  his  mind  the 
number  of  the  policeman,  who  had  seen  him  make  the 
turn,  so  he  could  have  some  one  to  refer  to  when  he 
told  the  incident  at  home  in  the  stable. 

The  Superintendent  helped  Mrs.  Warden  into  the 
trap.     She  begged  him  to  call  the  next  day. 

"Lawyer  Abel,"  she  called  to  the  coachman,  and  the 
carriage  rolled  on.  The  farther  she  went  from  the 
poor  quarter,  the  smoother  and  swifter  the  carriage 
moved.  When  they  entered  the  residence  section,  the 
fat  horses  Ufted  their  heads  gladly  to  breathe  the  good 
air,  that  came  across  the  gardens.  And  the  correct 
coachman,  without  any  visible  reason  cracked  his  whip 
three  times. 

How  could  one  expect  that  such  degenerate  people 


130  FAMOUS  STORIES 

could  ever  rise  to  any  height  of  intelligence!  What 
condition  must  exist  in  their  miserable  conscience — 
how  could  they  be  expected  to  withstand  the  tempta- 
tions of  life !  She  herself  knew  what  temptation  was. 
Did  she  not  have  to  fight  against  one  all  the  time — 
against  wealth!  She  shuddered  to  think  what  these 
beasts  of  men,  and  these  wretched  women  would  do, 
if  wealth  were  suddenly  given  to  them.  Wealth  was 
no  slight  test  of  character.  Just  day  before  yesterday 
her  husband  had  led  her  into  temptation.  He  insisted 
upon  hiring  an  English  groom.  And  she  had  resisted 
the  temptation  and  replied: 

"No — it  is  not  right.  I  will  have  no  groom  upon 
the  box.  Perhaps  we  are  rich  enough,  but  we  must 
guard  against  pride.  I  can  get  out  and  in  without 
help,  thank  God.'' 

Mrs.  Abel,  who  was  clearing  the  table  of  the  cloth 
and  the  copies  of  "The  Bazaar,"  was  glad  to  see  her. 

"You  are  back  so  soon,  Emilie?  I  have  just  told 
the  seamstress  to  go.  What  you  said  to  me  took  away 
all  desire  for  the  new  dress,"  declared  kind,  little  Mrs. 
Abel. 

"Every  one  must  follow  his  own  conscience," 
answered  Mrs.  Warden  gently. 

Mrs.  Abel  looked  up.  She  had  not  expected  this 
answer. 

"Let  me  tell  you  what  I  have  experienced," 
continued  Mrs.  Warden.  She  repeated  what  the 
Superintendent  of  the  Poor  had  told  her.  When  she 
had  finished  describing  the  condition  of  the  young  girl, 
Mrs.  Abel  became  so  ill,  the  maid  had  to  bring  her  a 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  131 

glass  of  port  wine.  When  the  costly,  cut  crystal 
decanter  and  glasses  were  brought  in,  Mrs.  Abel 
whispered  to  her. 

"What — all  in  one  bed?  You  can't  mean  it!" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Abel  clasping  her  hands  tragically. 

"I  would  not  have  believed  it  an  hour  ago/'  replied 
Mrs.  Warden. 

"How  lucky  you  were  to  get  safely  out  of  the  place, 
Emilie!" 

"Yes — and  when  we  consider,"  continued  Mrs. 
Warden,  "that  not  even  the  heathen — who  have  noth- 
ing— not  even  an  excuse  to  keep  them  from  wrong — 
nor  any  conscience — " 

"This  surely  speaks  loudly  for  all  who  listen  to  the 
teachings  of  the  church,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Abel 
sympathetically. 

"Yes — God  knows  that — who  does  it,"  replied  Mrs. 
Warden,  looking  straight  ahead,  a  smile  upon  her  lips. 
The  two  friends  separated  after  embracing  each  other 
warmly. 

Mrs.  Warden  took  hold  of  the  ivory  handle  and 
stepped  into  the  trap,  the  long,  grey,  train  floating 
behind  her.  She  closed  the  trap  door  carefully,  with- 
out making  any  noise. 

"To  Madame  Labiche!"  she  directed.  She  looked 
toward  Mrs.  Abel  and  said:  "Now,  Heaven  be  praised, 
I  can  order  that  silk  dress  with  a  clear  conscience." 

"Yes,  indeed,  you  can !"  was  the  answer. 

Then  she  hastened  into  the  house. 


MY  TRAVELING  COMPANION 
By  PIETARI  PAIVaRINTA 


PXIVXRINTA 

Paivarinta — ^who  belongs  to  the  new  school  of  Fin- 
nish writers — :although  he  was  born  much  earlier — is 
the  prose  poet  of  the  peasant  and  one  of  his  strongest 
equipments  for  this  aesthetic  role  which  he  was  to  play 
so  well,  is  the  greatness  of  his  heart — a  sort  of  tragic 
pity — which  is  found  in  everything  he  writes.  He 
sees  with  his  heart  and  nothing  escapes  this  seeing. 
Sometimes  it  lifts  him  to  just  such  dramatic  heights 
as  the  "Homeric  laughter"  of  Gogol,  which,  by  the 
way,  too,  was  full  of  tears.  It  is  an  x-ray  vision  that 
lays  bare  the  soul.  He  lived  the  life  of  a  peasant,  so 
he  knows  at  first  hand  the  things  of  which  he  writes. 
He  left  the  plowshare  after  he  was  forty  to  picture  the 
humble  companions  among  whom  he  had  spent  his 
days.  Like  Burns,  he  did  manual  labor  with  one  hand 
while  he  held  a  book  in  the  other.  The  date  of  his 
birth — 1827 — seems  long  ago  for  him  to  be  of  that  new 
school  of  story  tellers  of  Finnland,  among  whom  are 
Frosterus,  Pakkala,  Raijonen,  Aho.  His  parents  were 
poor,  day  laborers.  He  was  brought  up  to  work,  and 
to  the  observance  of  stern  discipline.  There  were  a 
number  of  other  children.  Pietari  was  the  eldest. 
The  parents  fell  ill,  and  he  was  obliged  to  go  out  beg- 
ging as  a  child  in  order  to  procure  bread  enough  for 
the  others.  When  he  was  scarcely  out  of  his  teens  he 
married  a  poor  peasant  girl  and  bought  himself  a  little 
piece  of  forest  land.  Unable  to  make  a  living  by  farm- 
ing he  traveled  from  parish  to  parish  and  sang ;  he  had 
a  voice  of  great  beauty  and  power  which  won  him  his 
first  fame.  At  length  he  settled  down  as  clerk  of  a 
parish.  Later  he  represented  his  peasant  community 
in  the  Finnish  Parliament.  His  first  book  was  Epi- 
sodes of  the  Great  War,  and  it  was  published  with  suc- 
cess the  year  he  wrote  it.  This  was  followed  by  others 
among  which  was  an  account  of  his  own  life.  The 
subjects  were  always  the  same,  pictures  of  peasant  life. 
Paivarinta  is  a  Joseph  Israel  of  the  pen. 


MY  TRAVELING  COMPANION 


It  was  the  last  of  March.  The  weather  was  fair  and 
here  and  there  one  could  see  signs  of  approaching 
Spring.  Birds  were  beginning  to  twitter  in  the 
branches.  Sleighing,  if  not  completely  broken  up,  was 
bad;  the  roads  were  rough  and  muddy,  and  in  several 
places  the  bare  groimd  showed  through.  Brooks  and 
rivers  were  filled  with  floating  snow  and  ice  and  dirt, 
and  only  the  sharp  freezing  at  night  kept  them  from 
overflowing  their  banks.  In  favored  places  many  a 
little  brook  had  burst  through  to  freedom  and  was 
joyfully  leaping  down  the  declivities,  and  rushing 
noisily  away  to  the  breast  of  its  mother— the  ancient 
sea. 

Such  was  the  season  and  condition  of  traveling, 
when  business  forced  me  to  take  a  journey  outside  my 
own  parish. 

Early  that  morning  I  came  across  a  man,  who  like 
myself  was  forced  to  travel  on  business.  He  had  one 
emaciated  old  horse  and  a  heavy  sleigh ;  indeed  he  went 
on  foot  and  pushed  the  sleigh.  When  I  overtook  him 
I  jumped  out  and  trudged  along  beside  him. 

"Good  morning,  old  man,"  I  began,  as  I  reached  his 
side. 

"Good  morning,"  was  the  reply,  without  looking  in 
my  direction, 

135 


136  FAMOUS  STORIES 

I  had  now  opportunity  to  observe  my  companion 
at  close  range.  His  horse  was  really  little  more  than 
a  skeleton,  and  the  load  was  two  barrels  of  tar.  In 
the  sleigh  I  saw  reeds  and  swamp-grass,  evidently  the 
horse's  food,  and  very  likely  for  the  same  purpose 
was  a  sack  filled  with^  straw,  which  was  placed  on  top 
of  the  tar  barrels  and  stuck  out  over  the  front.  In 
addition,  in  the  sleigh,  there  was  a  small  birch -bark 
basket  which  probably  held  food  for  the  man.  He 
wore  an  old  and  ragged  coat,  which  was  held  tight  at 
the  hips  by  a  worn  leather  strap.  The  coat  had  no 
buttons,  and  it  was  not  provided  with  any  means  of 
fastening  at  the  top.  The  strap  about  his  hips  had  no 
effect  upon  holding  the  old  coat  together  at  the  neck, 
so  the  man's  chest  was  bare. 

His  shoes  were  likewise  old  and  they  had  been 
mended  time  and  again.  Now  they  were  torn  and 
wisps  of  straw  which  he  had  used  to  try  to  stuff  the 
holes,  stuck  through.  On  his  hands  he  wore  tattered, 
often  mended  mittens,  and  on  his  head  an  ancient 
sheep  skin  cap. 

As  I  said,  the  old  man  was  trudging  along  behind 
the  sleigh.     He  did  not  seem  to  have  planned  upon 
riding,  because  the  two  barrels  of  tar  and  the  food* 
for  the  old  mare  filled  it  completely. 

When  he  came  to  a  place  in  the  road  where  the 
snow  was  gone,  the  old  man  pushed  the  sleigh  with 
all  his  strength,  in  attempt  to  help  the  feeble  horse. 
Holes  in  the  road,  and  furrows  cut  by  sleighs,  were 
filled  with  water,  and  this  ice  water  went  in  through 
the  holes  in  the  old  man's  shoes. 


MY  TRAVELING  COMPANION         137 

"Where  are  you  going?''  I  inquired,  in  order  to  begin 
a  conversation,  after  making  the  above  observations. 

"To  the  city!"  was  the  curt  and  melancholy  reply. 

"You  have  chosen  a  bad  time  for  vour  joumev, 
because  now  sleighing  is  uncertain." 

He  answered :  "True ;  the  road  is  bad  but  I  couldn't 
wait  for  a  tetter  one." 

"What  could  force  you  to  make  the  journey  now 
when  it  is  so  difficult  to  get  along?" 

"Threat  of  execution  for  debt.  That  doesn't  wait 
for  weather,"  said  the  old  man  sadly,  looking  up  at 
me  for  the  first  time,  with  shy,  grief-shadowed  eyes. 

This  was  my  first  glimpse  of  his  face.  It  was 
wrinkled,  and  eaten  out  by  misfortune,  and  made  old 
be^fore  years  had  done  so.  Both  his  body  and  his 
manner  indicated  fewer  years  than  his  face. 

"Who  is  such  a  cruel  creditor  as  to  drive  you  to  the 
city  in  weather  like  this  ?" 

"The  parson !"  said  the  old  man  sharply. 

"The  parson?  You  owe  him  so  much  then?"  I 
inquired  in  astonishment. 

"Only  last  year's  interest." 

"Only  last  year's  interest?  Haven't  you  been  to 
him  and  asked  him  to  wait?" 

"Yes — several  times." 

"Well,  what  does  he  say?" 

"He  was  very  angry  and  exclaimed :  You're  stealing 
from  me — you  vagabond."  He  didn't  have  any  pity 
when  I  begged  him  with  tears  in  my  eyes. 

"I  must  say  that  you  have  a  hard  hearted  parson. 
It  wouldn't  hurt  him  to  wait  a  little — anyway  until 


138  FAMOUS  STORIES 

the  roads  are  dry/'  I  explained  in  ill  temper,  without 
knowing  why  I  was  so  agitated. 

*That*s  just  what  I  think — that  he  could  wait.  But 
Fm  so  ignorant  I  don't  suppose  I  know  anything  about 
such  things — of  course  the  pastor  knows  better  than 
I  do.  He  has  great  responsibility  for  all  our  souls, 
and  I  suppose  that's  why  he  has  to  look  after  his 
interest.  He's  a  good  preacher — though — does  every- 
thing just  right.  Of  course,  I  don't  like  to  blame  the 
pastor — ^but  I  wouldn't  steal  however  much  good  it 
would  do  me.  Some  say  the  pastor  is  tight  and  thinks 
only  of  his  share.  But  how  could  he  carry  such  great 
responsibility — looking  after  our  souls — if  he  didn't 
get  all  that  was  coming  to  him?"  observed  the  old 
man  innocently. 

This  simplicity  threw  light  upon  the  old  man's 
nature.  Surely  he  had  been  tried  severely  by  the 
hardships  of  life — far  more  than  the  pastor — about 
whose  material  welfare  he  was  so  concerned.  All  his 
life  he  had  struggled  with  want,  with  suffering — with 
the  bitter  climate  of  our  Finnland.  And  still  he  felt 
it  his  duty  to  give  to  others  what  was  coming  to  them, 
no  matter  whether  or  not  he  had  anything  to  live  upon. 
The  only  thing  that  grieved  him  was  his  inability  to 
meet  his  obligations  punctually. 

"I  don't  think  it  was  right  for  the  pastor  to  call  me 
a  thief.  I  wouldn't  steal —  but  still  I  can't  pay," 
continued  the  old  man. 

This  utterance  came  from  a  heart  that  was  honest 
— if  worn  out  in  the  struggle. 

"If  I  can  haul  these  two  barrels  of  tar  to  the  city  I 


MY  TRAVELING  COMPANION  139 

can  pay  the  pastor — and  then  there'll  be  no  danger  of 
the  execution,"  he  went  on.  He  seemed  to  become 
more  confidential.  I  was  interested  to  know  some- 
thing more  about  the  life  of  the  old  man,  and  observed 
indifferently : 

"That  mare  of  yours  is  pretty  thin.  How  can  you 
expect  her  to  haul  those  two  barrels  of  tar  to  the  city?" 

"Yes,  true  it  is.  The  mare  is  lean.  But  how  could 
the  poor  creature  be  fat,  when  fed  upon  swamp-grass 
and  water?"  confessed  the  old  man. 

"But  the  creature  ought  to  be  provided  for  first," 
I  suggested. 

"So  anyone  would  say,  who  observed  from  a 
distance  and  did  not  know.  But  when  the  cold  h^s 
killed  everything,  you'd  take  what  little  you  could  get 
and  put  into  the  pot,  to  keep  the  family  from  starving. 
There's  very  little  difference  between  what  we  get  to 
eat  and  the  old  mare.  I  guess  you'd  find  the  old  mare 
fares  just  as  well  as  we  do,"  the  old  man  explained, 
looking  up  in  surprise  at  my  way  of  judging. 

"At  least  you  should  have  had  these  boots  of  yours 
mended.    Your  feet  are  wet." 

"Anyone  would  say  so — who  didn't  know.  But  if 
you  had  six  hungry,  naked  children,  and  a  wife,  you 
wouldn't  have  time  to  think  about  mending  shoes. 
Besides,  these  shoes  have  been  mended  and  mended — 
and  now  they  can't  be  mended  any  more.  Of  course 
I'd  like  to  wear  respectable  clothes — ^but  there's  no 
way," — declared  the  old  man  with  a  peculiar  intonation 
of  melancholy. 

"Where's  your  home?" 


140  FAMOUS  STORIES 

"Just  outside  a  village  on  the  edge  of  this  parish." 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Svaltbacka  Matti — they  call  me,  and  IVe  suffered 
hunger  all  my  life  on  my  "hunger  field." 

"How's  that?" 

"Well  it's  true  anyway.  My  hut  is  at  the  far  end 
of  a  lonely  village,  between  swamps  on  one  side  and 
marsh  land  on  the  other.  I  live  there  because  it  is 
not  good  enough  for  anyone  else.  My  father  built 
the  place,  but  now  every  year  the  cold  starves  us  out." 

"Can't  you  get  away  from  such  a  place?  You  could 
earn  a  better  living  somewhere  else." 

•"It  is  not  so  easy  to  get  away  as  you  think.  If  we 
tried  to  get  away  no  one  would  buy  the  place,  so  how 
could  we  buy  another?  We've  got  to  stay  there. 
And  it's  better  there  than  tramping — and  begging.  If 
I  could  only  get  away  from  these  payments !" 

"Is  it  last  year's  tar  you  are  taking  to  the  city?" 

"No.  How  could  I  keep  that  so  long?  Everything 
goes  from  hand  to  mouth.  That  was  used  up  long 
ago.  Hardly  was  it  in  the  barrels  before  away  it  went 
to  the  city." 

While  we  talked  on  we  reached  a  farm,  which  at 
the  same  time  was  a  rest-house,  and  the  old  man  said 
he  would  stop  and  feed  his  horse.  This  was  my 
intention,  too,  I  had  traveled  so  far  that  my  horse 
needed  food  and  rest.  The  sleigh  of  the  old  man 
began  to  grate  on  the  harsh,  bare  ground  in  front  of 
the  farm,  and  the  two  of  us  then  helped  the  old  mare 
as  best  we  could. 

When  we  had  unharnessed  the  horses  and  given 


MY  TRAVELING  COMPANION  141 

them  fodder,  we  took  our  food  bags  and  started  toward 
the  house.  We,  too,  felt  need  of  breakfast.  The  old 
man  picked  up  the  little  birch  basket,  took  something 
from  it  and  sat  down  upon  a  bench  in  the  corner  near 
the  stove.  I  wanted  to  know  what  he  had  to  eat  and 
made  believe  that  I  had  business  in  the  same  corner. 
Poor  and  needy  was  his  lunch.  It  was  only  black 
bread  and  salt. 

I  turned  away  and  took  up  my  food  box.  I  tried  to 
appear  calm  and  indifferent,  although  my  heart  was 
moved  by  strange  emotions.  When,  outwardly,  I  had 
regained  composure,  I  said  to  him : 

"Come  over  here  and  eat  with  me !"  The  old  man 
looked  up  in  my  face  and  did  not  answer.  He  did  not 
seem  to  comprehend.  Perhaps  he  did  not  hear  or 
perhaps  he  wished  to  hold  out  on  what  he  had  to  eat. 

"Come!  Come  over  and  eat  with  me,"  I  asked 
again. 

"Why  should  you  be  so  good  to  me?"  replied  the 
old  fellow,  carefully  packing  away  again  his  own  food 
in  the  birch  basket.  He  came  across  with  slow  steps, 
giving  a  hasty,  searching  glance  at  my  face,  in  order 
to  convince  himself  that  the  offer  was  genuine. 

"We  know  each  other  so  well  now  that  we  ought  to 
be  good  to  each  other,"  I  answered. 

"Sit  down  now  and  eat." 

OtjT  roads  separated.  The  old  man  went  on  toward 
the  city.  And  while  I  jogged  on  again  alone,  I  could 
not  get  the  poor  old  fellow  out  of  my  mind.  His  lean 
mare,  his  scanty  food,  his  ragged  insufficient  clothes, 


142  FAMOUS  STORIES 

and  his  face  which  had  grown  old  before  its  time,  were 
constantly  in  my  mind.  And  I  kept  on  hearing  his 
words :  "Anyone  would  think  so  if  he  didn't  know !" 

I  travelled  on  one  day,  two  days.  Ahead  now  I  saw 
a  good  sized,  well  built  village  and  a  church.  The 
village  extended  considerable  distance  and  the  fields 
that  stretched  between  the  buildings,  were  extensive, 
too.  This  was  no  new  village,  the  work  of 
pioneers.  The  farms  were  old  and  well  developed. 
Upon  this  land  many  ^^truggles  for  existence  had  taken 
place,  many  a  life  had  been  sacrificed.  Upon  these 
unpromising  fields  even  in  ancient  times  the  same 
struggle  had  been  going  on,  for  generations  and  gener- 
ations, in  order  that  people  of  today  might  enjoy  the 
result.  They  who  lived  here  now  were  reaping  reward 
from  the  suffering,  the  tears,  the  want,  the  oppression 
of  them  who  had  struggled  and  died.  Perhaps  none  of 
these  who  had  died  had  paid  their  interest  to  the 
pastor. 

The  prosperous  looking  church  stood  upon  a  hill, 
on  a  thread  of  land,  bordering  a  long,  indented  arm  of 
the  sea.  Pine  woods  shadowed  it  on  all  sides.  A 
little  farther  ahead,  upon  a  piece  of  land  projecting 
into  the  water  stood  the  elegant  home  of  the  pastor, 
in  the  midst  of  a  park.  My  business  led  me  to  call  upon 
the  pastor.  He  was  a  stately  figure.  And  in  his  home 
there  was  every  luxury  that  modem  civilization  can 
provide. 

The  pastor  was  sitting  in  an  expensive,  richly  uphol- 
stered chair.  He  was  tall,  well  built.  No  one  could 
say  that  he  had  grown  old  before  his  time.    He  was 


MY  TRAVELING  COMPANION         143 

pastor  of  the  parish  to  which  Matti's  "hunger-field" 
belonged,  and  it  was  because  of  him  that  Matti  was 
trying  to  get  to  the  city  with  two  barrels  of  tar. 

When  I  arrived  the  pastor  was  having  a  set-to  with 
the  clerk. 

"You  act  like  an  honest  man  according  to  your  own 
reckoning,  and  you  have  never  once  told  me  how  many 
cows  each  person  owns,  and  I  know  perfectly  well 
that  you  have  the  number  on  most  of  the  farms," 
declared  the  pastor. 

"Who?    I?"  answered  the  clerk. 

"Of  course — ^you,"  was  the  reply,  looking  sharply 
at  the  clerk. 

"How  could  I  know  just  how  many  cows  each  one 
has,'*"  objected  the  clerk.  He  seemed  to  wish  to  escape 
a  violent  attack  of  temper  on  the  part  of  the  pastor. 

"You  know  well  enough ;  and  I  know  you  do.  But 
you  try  to  conceal  it  from  me.  The  wretches  are  all 
stealing  from  me — and  who  shields  them  shares  the 
sin.  Do  you  know  clerk,  what  the  punishment  for 
theft  is  ?"  shrieked  the  pastor  in  a  rage. 

Red,  of  indignation  and  wounded  honor  dyed  his 
cheeks,  and  he  replied  to  this  accusation,  which 
according  to  my  opinion  had  gone  too  far. 

"I  don't  think  it  my  duty  to  run  about  the  village, 
and  count  the  cows,  in  order  to  report  to  the  pastor. 
Neither  do  I  think  it  my  duty — to  God  or  man— to 
report  cows  that  do  not  exist.  To  be  sure,  upon  earth 
there  are  two  kinds  of  people;  they  who  make  their 
incomes  as  large  as  possible,  and  they  who  make  it  as 
small  a  possible.    Who  has  visited  the  homes  of  the 


144  FAMOUS  STORIES 

poor — and  had  dealings  with  them — ^he  knows  the 
conditions.  The  pastor — according  to  my  opinion,  has 
said  things  he  has  no  right  to  say." 

Now  it  was  the  pastor's  turn  to  become  red.  Then 
he  let  all  his  anger  loose  upon  the  clerk. 

"Do  you  know,  clerk,  whom  you  address  ?" 

'T  know  very  well.  I  speak  with  my  lord,  the 
pastor,  but  not  with  a  gracious  lord." 

With  these  words  he  went  away.  They  did  not  take 
leave  of  each  other.  I  now  had  opportunity  to  intro- 
duce my  own  business.  The  pastor  was  in  a  bad 
temper.  The  just  reproach  of  the  clerk  had  done  its 
work. 

"This  Ignorant  clown  is  loud  mouthed,  and  doesn't 
know  better  than  to  attack  his  superiors.  He  has 
always  been  obstinate  and  self-willed.  Many  a  pastor 
has  said  to  me:  'If  I  had  him,  I'd  send  him  going.' " 

I  had  no  answer  to  make  to  this,  because  it  seemed 
to  me  the  pastor  had  been  the  cause  of  what  happened. 
I  politely  brought  my  own  business  to  his  attention. 
The  pastor  thought  he  understood  the  peasants  and 
their  customs  better  than  anyone  else.  He  cherished 
the  belief,  and  gave  expression  of  it  to  everyone,  that 
the  peasants  did  not  show  any  gratitude  toward  their 
benefactors.  He  did  not  happen  to  mention  just  who 
their  benefactors  were,  but  he  let  it  be  understood 
that  he,  himself,  was  the  most  prominent  among  them. 
This  speech  of  his  sounded  to  me  very  like  a 
preachment  upon  the  subject  of  martyrdom. 

I  concluded  my  business  as  speedily  as  possible  and 
went  my  way. 


MY  TRAVELING  COMPANION  145 

As  it  happened  I  still  kept  thinking  of  Svaltbacka 
Matti  and  his  two  barrels  of  tar.  I  couldn't  get  him 
out  of  my  head.  I  compared  his  life  and  surroundings 
with  that  of  the  pastor.  There  was  a  great  difference 
between  them.    But  as  human  beings  they  were  equal. 

Business  kept  me  several  days  in  the  little  village. 
When  I  traveled  on  again,  I  went  into  a  more  remote 
part  of  the  parish.  Here  the  roads  were  so  poor  and 
confusing  that  I  was  forced  to  hire  a  guide.  He  was 
a  young  man  and  wholly  untouched  by  the  responsibili- 
ties and  cares  of  this  world.  We  scarcely  exchanged 
two  words  on  the  trip. 

About  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  church,  on  the  left 
at  a  little  distance  there  was  a  farm,  where  a  lot  of 
people  were  assembled. 

"What  sort  of  farm  is  that?"  I  inquired  of  my  guide. 

"That  is  Svaltbacka,"  replied  the  young  man  care- 
lessly.   I  started. 

"What  are  all  those  people  doing  there?"  I  ventured, 
confused. 

"O — that's  an  auction  sale — an  execution.  It's 
because  of  a  debt  to  the  pastor,"  he  explained 
indifferently. 

"Is  the  owner's  name  Matti  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  replied  the  young  man  with  increas- 
ing indifference. 

"I  met  him  on  the  way  to  your  village.  He  was 
going  to  the  city.  We  went  along  together.  How  is 
this  sale  possible?  I  surely  should  have  met  him 
again." 


146  FAMOUS  STORIES 

"That's  easy  enough  to  understand.  Matti  took 
another  road.    There's  a  detour  here." 

"I  suppose  he  is  not  back  from  the  city,  because  he 
was  going  to  the  city  to  sell  two  barrels  of  tar  to  pay 
the  interest,"  I  ventured. 

"Probably  so." 

Here  the  road  turned  toward  Svaltbacka.* 

"Drive  up  to  the  house,"  I  ordered. 

The  guide  obeyed. 

When  we  came  near  I  saw  that  the  auction  was  all 
over.  There  hadn't  been  much  to  sell.  One  or  two 
lean  cows  was  all !  Besides  the  cows  there  were  a  few 
half  naked,  hungry  little  children,  and  a  worn  looking 
woman.  But  a  creditor  hasn't  any  use  for  creatures 
of  this  kind. 

The  cows  were  outside  the  yard,  tied  together  with 
willow  twigs.  The  new  owner  held  one  end  of  the 
twigs.  They  were  just  in  the  act  of  being  driven  away. 
The  woman,  white  and  trembling,  stood  in  the  midst  of 
the  hungry  children.  She  did  not  weep.  She  had 
wept  all  she  could  long  ago,  as  her  eyes  bore  witness. 
I  went  up  to  her  and  said  : 

"Did  your  husband  not  get  back  from  the  city?  Is 
that  the  cause  of  the  auction?" 

"How  do  you  know  that  Matti  went  to  the  city?" 
was  the  reply,  looking  at  me  searchingly. 

"I  went  part  of  the  way  with  him." 

"No,  he  hasn't  come  back.  And  he  said  he  was 
going  to  hasten  all  he  could.     I'm  afraid  something  has 

♦  Svaitbacka  means  Htinger  Field. 


MY  TRAVELING  COMPANION  147 

happened.  The  road  is  bad.  The  old  mare  is  so  lean, 
too.  But  when  Matti  comes  now  it  won't  do  any  good. 
Now  everything's  gone.  It's  all  over.  Even  if  the 
cows  were  not  good  for  much,  they  gave  a  few  drops 
for  the  children.  They  were  sold  for  nothing,  too. 
Who  would  pay  for  them  when  they  were  so  lean? 
They  didn't  bring  enough  to  pay  the  pastor,  let  alone 
the  costs  of  the  auction."    Thus  spoke  the  woman. 

Yes,  yes,  the  misfortune  had  come.  Things  had 
gone  their  way,  and  no  one  could  say  that  a  wrong 
had  been  done,  for  law  is  changeless  and  power  is  holy. 

I  had  seen  enough.  I  sought  out  my  guide  in  the 
crowd,  betook  myself  to  my  conveyance  and  again  we 
set  out.  Traveling  across  the  untenanted  land  that 
had  just  been  cleared  strange  thoughts  came  to  me, 
and  we  did  not  talk,  my  guide  and  I. 

"What  sort  of  man  is  the  pastor?  What  do  the 
villagers  think  of  him?"  at  length  I  inquired  of  my 
guide. 

"Oh,  the  pastor  is  a  fine  preacher.  But  he's  so  mean 
and  niggardly  that  he  steals  the  very  ashes  from  the 
hearths,"  replied  the  young  man  indifferently,  begin- 
ning to  hum  a  song. 

That  day  I  reach^  the  end  of  the  journey.  Here 
I  tarried  several  day^.  Then  again  one  Saturday  I 
set  out  with  my  guide  on  the  return.  Sunday  morning 
I  was  in  the  village.  I  put  my  horse  up  at  a  farm, 
and  determined  to  go  to  church,  since  the  opportunity 
presented  itself.  The  church  bells  rang  solemnly. 
They  were  summoning  the  people  to  listen  to  a 
message  of  love  and  peace. 


148  FAMOUS  STORIES 

When  I  reached  the  church  they  were  carrying  a 
dead  man  upon  a  bier.  The  pall  bearers  put  their 
burden  down,  to  wait  for  the  pastor  and  the  clerk.  It 
looked  as  though  the  pastor  was  still  quarreling  with 
the  clerk,  and  he  said:  "I  tell  you  the  rascals  are 
stealing  from  me." 

"Whom  are  they  burying?"  I  asked  of  some  one 
near. 

"Svaltbacka  Matti.     He  died  driving  to  the  city." 

Now  I  understood.  A  shudder  ran  over  me.  My 
old  traveling  companion  was  dead.  He  had  put  forth 
too  great  an  effort  to  make  the  journey.  That  was 
the  reason  he  could  not  return  and  prevent  the  auction. 

The  clerk  read  the  psalm : 

"Great  suffering  and  sorrow  in  the  valley  of  tears," 
etc. — 

Probably  Matti's  pastor  chose  this  psalm.  His 
sharp  eyes  and  instinct  had  told  him  that  it  was 
appropriate. 

When  we  reached  the  grave  and  the  pastor  began 
to  bless  the  last  place  of  rest,  he  took  the  shovel,  stuck 
it  in  the  ground,  lifted  up  earth  three  times  and  threw 
it  upon  the  coffin  of  the  dead  man.  With  great  pathos 
then  he  exclaimed:  "Dust  thou  art,  and  to  dust  thou 
shalt  return."  When  he  had  thrown  the  wet  and 
frozen  earth  upon  Matti's  coffin,  it  seemed  to  me  I 
could  hear  a  voice  saying:  "He*s  a  fine  preacher.  I 
don't  blame  the  pastor — I  wouldn't  steal — ^but  I 
couldn't  pay." 

Among  the  mourners  I  looked  for  Matti's  wife. 
This   woman   who   had   been   tried   in   sorrow   was 


p 


MY  TRAVELING  COMPANION         149 


tragically  white.  With  tearless,  reddened  eyes  and 
hollow  cheeks,  she  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  half  naked 
children,  who  were  shivering  and  looked  at  one  point 
— the  coffin.     I  went  up  to  speak  to  her. 

When  the  burial  was  over  I  asked  some  of  the 
people  about  Matti.  He  was  taken  ill  with  pneumonia 
before  he  reached  the  city.  He  was  ill-clothed,  wet, 
underfed,  and  he  could  not  struggle  against  it. 

Now  the  bell  summoned  to  church  service.  With 
others  I  entered  the  building.  After  the  singing  and 
the  altar  service,  the  pastor  went  to  the  pulpit.  He 
chose  for  text:  "Love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself." 
"Love,"  he  said,  "was  the  fulfilling  of  the  law."  With 
pathos  and  display  of  genuine  ability  he  explained  to 
his  hearers  this  high  and  noble  command. 

During  the  most  zealous  part  of  his  speech  I  heard 
again  the  words:  "He  is  a  good  preacher,"  The 
lengthy  sermon  seemed  not  to  be  lacking  in  effect. 
Here  and  there  women  wept. 

After  service  he  spoke  of  the  dead  man.  "God  in 
his  mercy  has  taken  from  this  vale  of  tears,  the  farmer 
Matti  Antinporka  of  Svaltbacka,  aged  forty-two  years, 
three  months  and  eight  days. 

What  is  wealth  and  what  is  gold? 
Trash — ^that  melt  to  dust  and  mold. 
Care  and  sorrow  here  below 
Both  the  rich  and  poor  must  know. 

Thus  the  pastor  bestowed  the  last  earthly  service 
upon  Matti.    And  he  did  not  do  it  in  the  cheap  manner 


ISO  FAMOUS  STORIES 

of  a  hireling,  but  with  oratorical  eloquence  and  fervor. 
When  he  read  the  hymn  above,  it  seemed  to  his  hearers 
that  he  scorned  gold  and  riches,  and  that  he  really 
suffered  for  the  companions  in  suffering  of  poor  Matti. 

But  while  he  was  reading  the  hymn  in  a  loud  and 
impressive  voice,  I  heard  another  voice  saying: 

"Fm  so  stupid  that  of  course  I  don't  understand 
such  things.  The  Pastor — ^he  knows  more  about  it 
than  I  r 


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